The Ninth Realm
by ravenscaronff
Summary: When the very foundations of the Eight Realms are threatened, one man sets out on a cosmic quest to restore the balance of power. Caught in a deadly race against time, he battles gods and monsters, makes a friend, finds a soulmate and...discovers the Ninth Realm! TAGS: BAMF Jon, BAMF Sherlock, Mythology, Eventual HEA. John' a Viking and Sherlock is...well, read on to find out.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

A pack of wolves howls in unison at the full moon, piercing the night as the darkening sky brews heavy weather, invisible nimbus clouds rolling and colliding thunderously. A thick curtain of rain cascades down on the forest of Mashu on the planet Nibiru. A short while later the downpour ceases, leaving behind a wet, chilly breeze that wafts through the foliage carrying with it the myriad scents of the woods - trees, wildlife, birds, herbs, the fresh smell of wet mud.

Flashes of lightning reveal the dark silhouette of a man crouching in a tree. His attention is focused on a clearing in the forest where an injured fawn lies twitching on the ground. It struggles to pick itself up as its helpless mother stands guard a few feet away. A predator lurks in the darkness, watching the dying fawn and the doe protectively circling her baby when pebbles begin jump on the ground as it rumbles with the loud, resounding footfalls of a fast approaching herd of elephants. The fawn looks up dolefully at its heartbroken mother who, realizing that her baby is not going to survive the predator or the stampede, begins to retreat towards the trees.

The man in the trees extends his left arm and an incandescent bow materializes in his hand. He draws his right hand back from the middle of the bow and a bowstring of cold, blue fire appears, anchoring a glowing arrow with a flaming head. He pulls the bowstring back till his right hand is beside his cheek and lets the arrow fly in the direction of the fawn. During its flight, the arrow splits into ten arrows which hit the ground in the shape of a semicircle and ignite into flames, forming a fiery cordon around the fawn and its mother. The sudden conflagration startles the predator and it steals into the forest just as the trumpeting elephants reach the clearing. The doe trots around her fawn apprehensively, peering out at the charging elephants but like water finding its way around a rock, the herd smoothly bifurcates to move around the barrier of flames, safely avoiding trampling the fawn and its mother.

When the herd has dispersed into the distance, the man lowers his left arm and the bow dematerializes. He nimbly slithers down the tree and runs to the fawn. Tongues of fire flicker and illuminate the man. His torso is bare and his long legs are clothed in rough linen trousers tucked into knee-high leather boots. A small knife is thrust into a loop on the outside of his right boot. He is over six and a half feet tall and, like the natives of the planet, his skin is blue with mysterious silver patterns on his shoulders, chest, back and face. Lustrous silver eyes reveal flecks of blue in one eye and green in the other in the firelight. His brooding features are particular; he is not classically handsome and yet his face is arresting. He exudes a magnetism and vitality that is evident even to the animals in the forest.

He is about to kneel by the fawn when a low, menacing purr announces the return of the predator. Bolder now, it advances towards them and steps closer to the ring of fire and snarls. Man faces beast, each waiting for the other to strike. The beast recognizes the man as an equal and growls as it lifts itself off the ground to pounce on him but he deftly jumps aside and holds up his right arm in which a broadsword of shining steel immediately appears. His hand grasps the hilt tightly as he swings the blade up and rushing towards the predator he launches himself in the air and descends on the beast, plunging his sword into its flank. The beast throws him off and thrashes its paws at him, claws extended and the man jumps back with a hiss when the marauding creature rips the skin on his chest. The wound in its side is enough to ward the beast off or at least delay its attack and it pulls away, waiting just beyond the clearing, watching the man and the two deer, its eyes shining in the light of the flaming arrows.

The man returns to the fawn and hunches over it. It is fatally wounded. A sharp twig has pierced its body and he breaks the twig off and begins to slowly pull it out of the fawn's belly, inadvertently lancing his palm on a splinter in the process. Ignoring his own wound, he places his hands on the fawn's belly, trying to stem the bleeding by speaking esoteric words to it. The fawn begins to close its eyes as its life leaves its body but when their blood mingles, the man's mind is abruptly and unexpectedly filled with the fawn's memories. He reels from the sudden and rapid influx of information and the patterns on his body begin to glow as his mind's eye sees the fawn catching its first glimpse of the world as it emerges from its mother's womb. He feels it taking its first halting steps on uncertain legs and crashing to the ground and then fifteen, twenty, fifty steps later he feels its joy as it bounds about like the gazelle it would have grown up to be, exuberantly circling its mother and breathing in the cool air of the forest. The smile that has appeared on his face fades when he feels the fawn run through the forest with its herd and be shunted aside by a male deer, impaling itself on a branch and falling to the ground in mute pain, taking the branch with it, as its internal organs begin to bleed from where they are skewered on the wooden stake. He feels it collapse in the clearing and silently call out to its powerless mother. He sees the fawn's surprise when the flaming fence forms around it and then sees himself through the fawn's eyes, a blue saviour with a bow of fire and a sword like tethered lightning. Finally the fawn breathes its last and its eyes close to the world. It is at peace and their connection is broken.

He looks up to see the doe standing by, her beautiful eyes glistening with tears for her dead baby. She locks eyes with the man, takes a few steps to nuzzle her baby and then nuzzles the man in a gesture of gratitude before running off into the forest to join her herd.

The man rises to his feet and looks over at the crouching beast. They lock eyes for a long moment and then the man waves his hand dismissively and the flaming arrows are extinguished. When he has sprinted away into the darkness, the predator advances towards the dead fawn and sinks its teeth into its soft neck to drag the carcass away. The circle of life continues undisturbed in the forest of Mashu.

* * *

By the time the man approaches his home, a rustic lodge on a small hill in the forest, the wounds on his chest and palm have healed. He walks to his bedchamber and takes off his clothes. A brook gurgles behind the lodge and he eagerly steps into its cool, clean water to stand below the small waterfall that gushes down into the rivulet. He closes his eyes as the cleansing waters saturate his long black locks and flow away as he scrubs the day's memories off his long limbs. As he moves under the water, the man's lean musculature appears as an ever-changing canvas of light and shadow under the moonbeams that stream over his glistening body.

The man feels the loss of the fawn and its mother's bereavement fade from his spirit. He feels calm and purified and is about to step out of the water when, for the third time in as many weeks, a stabbing pain shoots up his spine and he doubles over in agony, his arms clasped over his stomach. His body feels like it is being ripped apart, torn from limb to limb and the silver patterns on his body turn red. His ears are filled with screams of death. A scorching heat burns his forehead and he falls to his knees in the water and happens to catch his reflection in the shimmering moonlight. A third eye has appeared on his forehead. It glows a bright red and continues to get brighter as the torturous pain spearing through his body worsens and worsens until his head falls back and his own distress and that of the dying beings in his head tear out of him as a piercing cry that shakes earth and sky. The man drops into the water, enfeebled as though a part of him has died. He shakes through the residual waves that slam through his body and when after a long time the screams and the pain subside, he drags himself out of the stream and makes the grueling trudge back to his home to collapse on his bed, naked, wet and shivering and succumbs to the call of a fitful sleep.

* * *

A cacophonous and furious pounding on his door rouses him the following morning. Cursing, he forces his nude body out of bed and wrapping a sheet around himself, he opens the door a crack and squints at the breathless envoy standing on the other side.

'What the _fuck_ do you want?' he rasps, his voice rough with sleep.

'Shara!' the envoy pants. 'You have been summoned and are to accompany me to the Great Hall right away!


	2. Somebody's watching me

Chapter Notes: A/N: Nóregr is the old Norse name for Norway.

* * *

**Somebody's watching me**

The sun shines high in the clear blue sky, its invisible rays streaming down brightly onto a bustling street. It is deceptively sunny on this cool morning in the city of Asgard, the seat of divinity in the realm of Nóregr. A small group of gossiping elderly men huddles under a bright canopy on one side of the street. Artisans and merchants loudly hawk their wares of apocryphal foreign origins, ascribing mystical powers of healing and good fortune to the more arcane artifacts. Fishmongers and butchers altercate noisily with housewives seeking to drive a hard bargain and stretch that last piece of hack silver to purchase the family's dinner. Every once in a while both merchant and customer shout in annoyance as they make way for a gaggle of robust Viking boys in their early teens rushing about the street, their long blond locks sweeping about their flushed, vibrant faces as they laugh and steal fruits and vegetables from vendors and then nimbly scamper away from their victims.

A man takes in this scene through narrowed eyes. He sits outside a local inn and pretends to drink from a jug of ale. The man is tall, lanky and startlingly pale, his pallor thrown into sharp relief by his tousled bistre hair that curls wantonly in dark tendrils on his high and very regal forehead. He wears his hair shorter than the local fashion and runs the long fingers of a careless hand through it and leans his head back, closing his eyes, feeling his skin tingle in the chill while bathing in the sunshine. It is a lovely day in Asgard until the man feels a presence behind him and hears a very faint ring of steel, too brief to be a sword - no, this was a knife being drawn from its sheath. Before he can react, he feels an icy prick on his neck and smiles when he hears an authoritative and somewhat nettled voice behind him.

'Who are you and why are you following me?'

He knows who stands behind him.

'I'll answer you if you let me go.'

'How about I let you go if you answer me?'

When the pale man doesn't respond, his unseen aggressor growls and presses the knife in a little harder.

'Turn around. Who are you and why are you following me?'

The pale man turns around and looks up at the man holding a knife to his throat. He is a Viking, tall but a few inches shorter than he is. His blond hair spills onto his forehead in a fetching fringe and over the back of his collar but is shorter than the local custom. A non-conformist army man.

'You're foreign to these parts', the Viking asserts.

'What makes you say that?' the pale man asks, cocking an interested eyebrow.

The blond man finds himself faced with a study in contradiction. Translucent gray eyes remind him of a glistening iron shield dipped in the icy waters of a Nordic lake and yet they hold amused warmth. His eyes flick over a pale face that appears to be an artistic arrangement of solely angles and planes but for the man's lips that sit, incongruously soft, pink and bow-shaped, above a proud and square chin. Flawless thin skin is pulled tight over sharp cheekbones that dip into hollow cheeks and then are underscored by a beautiful, smooth jawline. The man before him exudes an overpoweringly male allure with an intoxicating insinuation of androgyny. His slender body sinks languidly in the wooden chair and the blond man blinks hard, hopelessly disconcerted by the electric current that seems to crackle between their bodies as the pale man conducts his own appreciative appraisal of the Viking.

'Your dark locks…', the Viking begins and then snaps out of his rapture. 'This is not your home. Who are you?'

'My name is Sh…lock.'

'Sherlock?'

'Yes, yes. Sherlock Hölmesson.'

'Alright, Sherlock, son of Hölmes, what are you doing so far from home?'

'I am an Asgardian.'

'No, you're not.'

'Prove it.'

'Asgardians are typically blond, green- or blue-eyed and bronzed. Your hair is dark, your eyes are gray and you are white as a sheet – you haven't seen much sun. You must hail from cooler climes. Jötunheimr, perhaps? But you have something of the devil in your eyes, so probably Helheim.'

'A perfectly logical if somewhat romantic analysis but completely erroneous', the stranger says with a harsh laugh. 'Do go on.'

'Then there's your name.'

'What's wrong with my name?'

'_Sherlock_. Really, _who_ names their son _Sherlock_?'

'Maybe my progenitors had a quirky sense of humour. Will you let me go now?'

'Progenitors? Why won't you call them your parents?'

'I don't know my parents. Please get that knife away from my throat. You'll understand if I don't share your faith in your steady hands.'

'Not yet. Your words were the answer to my question "Who are you?" You still haven't told me _why_ you are following me.'

'I am a historian on a quest to find an ancient artifact.'

'An artifact? What kind of artifact?'

'Intrigued? I'm afraid I can't tell you, Jon Wöttson, Commander of the army of Thor Odinson. Not yet, anyway.'

'So, you know who I am. Since yesterday I have seen you on the corner of my street, at the Library, the Armoury and now at the Marketplace. You're following me. Why?'

'You are interesting to me.'

'Why would I be interesting to you?'

'Again, I can't tell you just yet. You may not like what I have to say.'

'I am a warrior, not a historian or curator of artifacts. I have nothing of interest to you. Stop following me.'

'Are you afraid of me?' Sherlock drops his voice an octave and purrs, his lips quirking up in a small smile.

'Not at all', Jon scoffs. 'But I like to be left alone and if you don't stop following me, I'll have to do something about it.'

'What?'

'I can't tell you just yet. You may not like what I have to say', Jon says and turns to leave.

* * *

The next morning Jon draws open the curtains in his bedchamber and is faced with the sight of an unsmiling Sherlock, leaning against a wall across the street and gazing at his window. When he sees Jon, he nods briefly and pushes himself off his wall, waiting. Jon curses. He dresses and goes down.

'_What_ are you doing standing outside my home?'

'I was waiting for you to awaken.'

'I am serious, Sherlock. Leave me alone.'

'You remember my name.'

'It's a peculiar name and not easily forgotten. Now stop following me.'

'Am I really following you? This is public space.'

Jon walks away.

That evening, Sherlock once more stands across the street. Once more, Jon asks to be left alone and Sherlock just smiles.

* * *

The following morning, Jon draws open his curtains and looks across the street and sees the wall but no Sherlock. _I should be glad, _he thinks, attempting to dispel his disappointment with logic._ He's leaving me alone because I asked him to. _He continues to stare at the empty wall. It has only been two days and already the wall looks ugly and bald when it isn't serving as a backdrop for the leaning form of the pale man.

Jon dresses and heads over to the Armoury. His eyes dart around, furtively seeking a curly haired man with eyes of dark ice who is nowhere to be found. He is about to open the door to the Armoury when a smoky voice growls in his ear, close enough for him to feel the hot breath fan his neck. His own breath leaves him in a huff.

'You were looking for me', the honeyed tones _tell_ him.

'I was not', Jon issues a hollow denial. 'What do you want with me?' They both know that all the fight has left him.

'I need something from you.'

'I'm a warrior. I serve in the Army for a living. My possessions comprise my home, my clothing, my armour and weapons and some food. I can't imagine you need anything else from me. Leave me alone.'

'I will, on one condition.'

'Which is?'

'Spar with me in the arena. Your rules. Weapons of your choice. If I win, you help me. If you win, I'll leave and you'll never see me again.'

'Really? I have fought _wars_. I'm a soldier whereas you…you're a _historian_', Jon sneers.

'Is one's choice of vocation a reliable indicator of one's prowess and dexterity with weapons?'

'Perhaps not, but you're a wraith. You really think you can take me?'

'Afraid you'll lose?'

'Not at all. Step this way.'

They enter the Armoury and Sherlock surveys the weapons arrayed against the wall. Jon picks up a pair each of wooden battle axes, Gokstad shields of linden wood, yew bows and a quiver of arrows and hands Sherlock one set of these weapons. They enter the arena, a sparring ground within the Armoury.

'I'm only indulging you because you're outrageous. Three matches – one bout with axe and shield, one game of archery and one final bout with bare hands. Winner needs two out of three. Of course, I'm going to win and you're going to leave me alone', Jon states. He shakes his head. 'This is going to be a brief scrimmage.'

He doesn't see the need for a mail vest and helmet and Sherlock remains similarly unprotected. It is just two men, their wooden armaments, one man's unanswered questions about the other and a simmering undercurrent of dangerous and undeniable attraction.

'Contact with the neck, ribs or midriff counts as a win', Jon explains the rules for the first round.

They step into the middle of the arena and circle each other slowly, brandishing their battle axes, each watching for weaknesses in the other's footwork and posture. Jon cuts the air with a few smooth moves of his axe and takes a running step towards Sherlock who lithely steps aside, raises his shield just in time to block a blow from Jon's axe and, in a fluid continuation of his movement, swings his own axe towards Jon's unprotected ribs. Jon brings his left arm crashing down on Sherlock's axe and knocks it out of his hand. The wooden weapon skims the ground, spinning a few times before it comes to rest a short distance from them. Sherlock quickly somersaults on the ground on one shoulder and lands by his axe. A sprightly jump lands him back on his feet, holding his axe and grinning mischievously at Jon.

Jon snarls and runs towards his mad opponent. They thrust and parry for what seems like a long time, two equally matched men fighting for dominance on more than just this sparring ground. Jon growls each time his blows are deflected and Sherlock beams. Jon is infuriated. He is _frustrated_. This physical tournament has metamorphosed into a battle of egos, a blatantly sexual contest for supremacy. They pull apart and watch each other, panting and perspiring, Jon still cursing and Sherlock still imperturbable.

Jon loses his last shred of patience and charges towards Sherlock holding his shield in front of his chest while his axe swings up to his right. Sherlock's shield is instinctively raised to deflect Jon's attack but Jon's arm swiftly changes direction in mid-flow and comes up from his left to catch Sherlock's unprotected right rib in an expertly controlled, back-handed strike.

'I win', Jon says breathlessly as he presses the wooden blade of his axe softly into Sherlock's rib. His eyes shine with the thrill of victory and his lips involuntarily part in a tight but elated smile.

His skin tingles where Sherlock's eyes walk down his neck, following a bead of sweat that slowly rolls down his skin. His smile recedes to his eyes while his lips stiffen.

'I win', he repeats and wipes his sweat away with the back of his hand.

Axe and shield are dropped contemptuously against the arena wall and Jon takes a drink of water. He blames the physical exertion for the suffocating heat rolling wetly down his body and pulls off his tunic, letting it fall on his shield.

Sherlock stands rooted in the middle of the arena, his wide eyes taking in the sight of Jon's sweating torso, glistening in the sunlight. He watches the cool breeze whip around the Viking, ruffling his blond mane as he bends down and picks up the longbows and quiver and turns to hand them to Sherlock. He finds it hard to breathe and swallows to wet his throat. Jon's body is taut, his shoulders broad and strong. His lean muscles gracefully bunch and roll under the golden hair that dusts his thin skin as he walks towards Sherlock, holding out a bow and quiver.

'There's water if you're thirsty', Jon says, allowing Sherlock's hungry eyes to continue their unabashed appraisal of his physique.

He tilts his chin up and squares his shoulders, knowing it accentuates the cut of his chest, knowing that the muscles in his abdomen ripple with each cycle of breath. He hooks his thumb in the waistband of his trousers to casually scratch his skin a little with his nail, pushing it down just enough to reveal a hint of angular hip bone and permits himself a small inward grin of triumph when he hears a hitch in Sherlock's breathing.

Sherlock turns abruptly and walks away. He irritably lobs his axe and shield at the wall and they clatter to the ground. A long drink of water does little to quench his thirst. He looks over at Jon and is dismayed when his throat goes dry again. Jon has thrown down the gauntlet, a clear challenge in his defiant blue eyes and Sherlock rises to it. He pulls off his own tunic, drops it on his shield and stands erect, basking in Jon's voracious gaze sweeping over his sweat-sheened body.

Jon feels his bluster crumble at the sight of Sherlock's milky, smooth torso, slender and yet gracefully muscled. He wants to _lick_ his skin. He wants to lick Sherlock _everywhere_, taste his sweat and breathe in his musk. Prominent collar bones meet in rounded knobs at the base of a long, beautiful neck and lead Jon's eyes over to pronounced shoulder muscles capping his beautiful arms, dipping into lean biceps leading to corded forearms that narrow to strong wrists and then fan out into the most mesmerizing hands Jon has ever seen. There's a wiry intelligence to Sherlock's body, a vitality that Jon can almost see vibrate through the pale limbs and in that instant the balance of odds that see-sawed overwhelmingly in Jon's favour a moment ago returns to its fulcrum, Jon's win in the first bout reduced to a _marginal_ advantage over Sherlock.

Jon coughs and Sherlock laughs.

'Fuck', Jon mutters and in a somewhat louder voice asks 'Ever used a bow?'

'Once or twice', Sherlock shrugs. 'What's the challenge?'

'Shoot a moving target from ten paces.'

'Moving?'

'Watch.'

Jon steps into the Armory. When he returns, he is carrying a large wooden wheel which he fits onto a peg in the wall. There's a section on the rim that has been chipped away. Jon points to it.

'That's the target', he says and pulls down hard on a spoke. The wheel begins to spin on its pivot. 'Shoot it to win.'

'Winner from Round One goes first', Sherlock says.

'Fine. Stop the wheel. Let me get ready and then you can spin it as fast or as slow as you want.'

Jon bends to pick up his bow and pull out an arrow from the quiver. Walking ten paces and turning to face the wheel, he points the bow down and nocks the arrow, wedging the vane between his index finger on top and his middle and ring fingers below. The arrowhead rests above his left fist that holds the bow. He uncoils his back and draws himself upright. Squaring his shoulders, he spreads his legs to shoulder width in an open stance, distributing his body weight just so. With one fluid motion, he raises the bow and draws the bowstring back till his right hand rests at the side of his face, his arms forming a T from his left fist to his shoulders to his right elbow in the perfect pose of an accomplished archer. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath, feeling his muscles relax and loosen.

'Now', he calls out to Sherlock, his eyes still closed.

When he opens his eyes he sees the spinning wheel and Sherlock standing a little off to the side. His eyes follow the rim of the wheel and latch onto the chip and continue to follow it for a few revolutions. He then aligns his sight with a spot on the circumference of the wheel and levels his bow. Sherlock slowly fades from his vision and all he sees is that spot on the wheel. In the periphery, he can see the chip in the wood moving on its entrancing circular route. His right arm pulls the bowstring taut till breaking point. He sees the chip approaching the point of his focus and a second before the chip reaches position, he releases a breath and with it, the arrow. The bowstring snaps back with a twang and the bow vibrates with the impact. He hears the arrow schhwaff through the air and his intense gaze can see the shaft undulating with the force of its ejection until a sharp wobbling thud tells him it has unerringly found its target.

He ignores the wheel and shifts his gaze to Sherlock. They watch each other as the wheel slows to a halt. Together they walk to the wheel and, as expected, Jon's arrow is firmly wedged right in the centre of the chip. Jon smiles derisively and moves to pull the arrow out.

'Don't', Sherlock stops him.

'You're not serious', Jon says, realizing what Sherlock intends to do.

'I am', Sherlock affirms with a slight tilt of his chin.

'You'll lose.'

'Then you should let me…unless you aren't ready to be rid of me just yet?' Sherlock drawls with a wink.

He picks up his bow, pulls an arrow from the quiver and nocks it. He walks twenty paces from the wheel and shifts a little left of centre to stand directly in line with the rim of the wheel on the left. He drops his head back and the creamy skin of his neck is stretched thin as he rolls his head around. When he loosens his shoulders, the muscles of his back slink over his shoulder blades. Jon reaches for a drink of water. And another. A dark cord of desire coils like a snake in his belly. Sherlock holds up the bow, sets his arrow in position facing the wheel and aims dead ahead at the left rim of the wheel. His fingers tighten over the feather fletching as he draws the bowstring back as far as it will go, the supple yew pulled into a semicircle with the tension.

'Now', he snaps and closes his eyes.

Jon pulls down hard on a spoke of the wheel and it begins to spin. The whirring of the wheel reaches Sherlock's ears and he slowly opens his eyes, following the movement of Jon's arrow stuck in the rim. His breath flows through his nose in steady streams and he hears his heart beat in his chest. Time slows and everything in Sherlock's vision fades into nothingness, leaving only the revolving nock of Jon's arrow. His single focus is that one small point in the distance and when the arrow is at the top of the wheel, he releases his own arrow and watches Jon's shaft pass down the left and then split in two down the length of the shaft, a clean split from nock to arrowhead, the two halves flying off in opposite directions and falling to the ground. That is when he lowers his bow.

Jon is watching him in disbelief. Sherlock's arrow is decisively wedged in the chip while his own arrow lies in two pieces on the ground.

'Once or twice?'

'Maybe a few more times than that.'

'Who are you _really_? Historians don't shoot like that.'

'True, not all historians are archers', Sherlock agrees. He pulls his upper lip in and blows air up his face to toss his rowdy curls off his forehead.

'Fuck', Jon mutters as the desire in his belly slithers down to his cock.

'One-all. So, you said hand-to-hand combat is next?' Sherlock asks with a dangerous edge to his voice.

'Hand-to-hand combat. Y…yes', Jon stammers and clears his throat. 'First person to land a punch to jaw, rib or heart wins.'

Sherlock leans his bow against the wall and returns to the centre of the arena. Jon is discomfited by the discovery of Sherlock's dexterity with the bow but he braces for the last challenge. He can still win this. Sherlock is much more slender than he is and only a couple of inches taller. Jon can…no, he _will_ easily defeat him with his bare hands.

Thus resolved, he places his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and shoves. Sherlock falls hard on the ground and before he can recover, Jon is straddling him, holding his arms down on each side and locking his thighs around Sherlock's thrashing legs. Sherlock's hands are clasped tight around Jon's wrists and he grimaces as he tries to push Jon off him. Jon presses down on Sherlock but suddenly freezes when he feels their cocks brush through the rough fabric of their trousers. The man under him exploits this momentary lapse and roughly pushes Jon off, flips him onto his back and looms over him, his lips pulled into a tight line while his grim eyes are locked on Jon's in the cold gaze of an executioner. He _sits_ on Jon's hips and grabs both his wrists to raise his arms over his head, pinning them down in the tight grip of his left hand. Jon makes a half-hearted attempt at defending himself but his focus has splintered and he lies on his back, poleaxed into submission by stormy eyes of steel while Sherlock unhurriedly makes a fist with his right hand and softly presses it first to Jon's left rib, his heart and then his left jaw. His eyes darken as he catches Jon gaping at him. Frowning slightly, and for reasons unknown even to himself, Sherlock drags his knuckles slowly and softly down Jon's neck, watching and _feeling_ them slide down Jon's damp skin. Jon sighs. Sherlock blinks and his eyes fly up to Jon's.

'Two out of three', he murmurs, his face an inch from Jon's neck and draws his head back to add, 'I win. You lose.'

When Jon finally finds his voice, he hisses 'Fuck you', and pushes a bewildered Sherlock off him. He pulls on his tunic and storms off on foot to his home. Slamming the door shut, he stands with his back to it and curses loudly, detesting his abject powerlessness in the presence of this mad stranger.

A few moments later, a fist bangs loudly on his door.

'Open up, Jon! Open the door!'

'Leave me alone, Sherlock!'

'I played by your rules, Jon, and I won! Are you going back on your word?' Sherlock shouts, still beating on the door.

'Fuck you, Sherlock!' Jon curses and turns to open the door.


	3. The Viking and the Virgin

**The Viking and the Virgin **

_'Fuck you, Sherlock!' Jon curses and turns to opens the door. _

* * *

Before he can step back, he is pushed into the house by the body of Sherlock slamming into his own and he hears the door kicked close behind him.

They grapple with each other, raining blows down each other's backs, thighs and wherever fist can connect hard with muscle or bone. Sherlock shoves him against the wall but Jon does not back down. He lifts his arm and swings but Sherlock feints and Jon only manages to land a glancing blow on his jaw. Sherlock rubs his jaw and snarls, lunging at Jon and again throws him against the wall. Jon shouts as his head slams against the hard surface and he blinks, dazed with the impact but before he can marshal his faculties, Sherlock is looming over him. He grasps Jon's wrists in each hand and pins his arms to the wall. His breath comes out in a low growl and his nose almost touches Jon's as he levels him with an incendiary stare; Jon's eyes evoke an angry ocean, defying Sherlock to break him. In that instant something changes in Sherlock. His head jerks back and he blinks in consternation. He suddenly _sees_ Jon. Something is different between them and his eyes flit back and forth on Jon's eyes and he notices that the deep blue has contracted to just a corona around huge, black pupils. Jon's gaze is unfocused, his mouth is open and his breathing is harsh, forced through wet, flushed lips as his chest rises and falls with the effort of lengthening his breaths. Sherlock releases one of Jon's wrists and raises his hand to place it flat on Jon's chest, feeling his heartbeat through the rough linen of his tunic. Jon's heart races under Sherlock's palm, thudding hard in its bony cage and tottering when he moves his hand over Jon. Sherlock is captivated by its strong yet erratic beat.

'Why does physical aggression make your heart gallop like an untamed stallion?'

'You think _physical aggression_ did this to me?'

'Didn't it?'

'No, _you_ did this to me.'

'What did _I_ do?'

'You really want to know?'

'Yes.'

'Are you sure?'

'I am. I want to know everything.'

'Alright', Jon says, licking his lower lip. 'Let go of my hand and don't move.'

Sherlock unclasps Jon's other wrist and takes a step back. Jon tilts his chin up, lifts both hands to Sherlock's face and pulls his head down. Then he closes his eyes and presses his lips to Sherlock's. He doesn't notice that Sherlock has gone still and he begins to move his head, sliding his dry lips across Sherlock's, not stopping even when the other man doesn't respond. Sherlock doesn't push him away so he pulls back a little, eyes still closed, bumps his nose with Sherlock's as he tilts his head the other way and catches Sherlock's lips again, moving more this time, parting his lips marginally to draw Sherlock's upper lip and then his lower lip into a very brief, very shallow suck.

Sherlock panics. His eyes are open unnaturally wide and his skin is hot where Jon's lips touch his. He quells his impulse to tear away from Jon but then warm hands slide down his face and his neck and the slope of his shoulders to close around his arms and he feels his skin sear under Jon's palms.

When Jon moves closer and presses against him, his own body begins to writhe as Jon's arms move over his back, pressing hard into his skin and causing their loose clothes to bunch and ride up in the process and when Jon's palm reaches under Sherlock's tunic to lie flat against the small of his back, Sherlock shatters. His eyes close, and he doesn't know why his arms rise and circle Jon to hold him painfully tight as if he wants to pull Jon _into_ him so that they are no longer two but just one throbbing body. Jon whimpers but doesn't attempt to extricate himself from Sherlock's iron hold. Instead, he runs his hands gently up and down his back and parts his lips again to play with Sherlock's.

'Everything?' he murmurs against Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock's quivering and guttural 'Uhnnm' might be the most erotic sound Jon has ever heard. His blood pumps through his veins in a dull, insistent thumping rhythm. He feels his heart in his ears.

When Jon pulls away, he pushes Sherlock's tunic up his body so that he must raise his arms for it to slip off over his head. Jon grasps his own tunic at his shoulders with both hands and pulls it off with one smooth move.

'Take your boots off', he urges and kicks his own boots off to the side and watches Sherlock's long, bony feet be revealed when he takes his footwear off.

Jon tugs on the drawstrings of Sherlock's trousers, and then on his own drawstrings and watches as the loose garments float down to the floor at their feet in a ruffle of heavy fabric, revealing their naked bodies covered with a thin sheet of sweat, glistening in the firelight.

His eyes rake a lust-filled trail over Sherlock's body. There is no part of Sherlock that is not achingly beautiful. He is all long and lean with surprisingly sculpted musculature. He briefly imagines Sherlock as a remote, marble statue, except this statue is warm and alive and he is allowed to touch it. He sees the insecurity in Sherlock's eyes and strokes the sides of his face.

Sherlock is caught in the grip of a cold terror as he feels his primal instincts, heretofore dormant and unconsciously suppressed, boiling to the surface and trying to tear free of the sensory restraints his ascetic life had imposed upon him. His cock is painfully hard and he looks down at it in astonishment. His insecurities deteriorate to pure fear, clearly visible to Jon in Sherlock's expressive eyes.

'Have you never done this before? Has no one touched you before?' he asks in a voice that is calm and gentle and devoid of judgment.

Sherlock mutely shakes his head, still looking at his cock and then raising his eyes just a bit to look at Jon's. Jon's cock appears equally hard and erect, not as long as Sherlock's but thicker. He is relieved to see that Jon is as affected as he.

'You were made to be touched, Sherlock. I won't do anything you don't want me to. Just say _Stop_ and I will. Do you trust me?'

Sherlock gives a brief nod, still not speaking but he looks at Jon.

When Jon takes a step forward and pulls Sherlock's head down to meet his lips again, curiosity and terror battle for control in Sherlock's scrambled thoughts. He feels powerless to resist. His austere circumstances have not prepared him for this stimulatory excess. To Sherlock, who has never known fear or helplessness, this loss of control is petrifying and he wants to flee to the bare and non-threatening sanctuary of his monk-like existence. But Jon again presses his body to him, naked this time, and skin touches skin - shoulder to chest, stomach to stomach, hips to hips, thighs against thighs, knees pressing into thighs, and Sherlock is ruined. It feels like he is being burned alive and yet he cannot have enough.

Jon's tongue, wet and rough, licks against the seam of his lips; every lick is followed by a hard breath against the wet lave that cools his skin and assuages the heat seeping through him. How is it possible that the touch of another being's skin can feel so contradictory? At once scorching and also a cool, liquid flood quenching his parched soul and healing it. Each caress of Jon's tongue chips away at his resistance and his own lips part, allowing Jon entrance into his mouth. The first touch of tongue on tongue sends a cool torrent of desire rushing through his overheated body and he feels the ardency in his tissues diminish into a low, blue simmer, the colour of Jon's eyes, stroking him, comforting him like Jon's hands and Jon's lips and Jon's tongue. He opens his eyes and sees Jon's face on his, eyes closed and lost in the press of their lips, and at the moment he closes his own eyes again he abandons himself to Jon. He trusts Jon to hold him as he falls into a frightening whorl of sensation. Coherent thought is demolished and his mind goes blank save for one word. Jon. Jon. Jon. A chant, a mantra.

'Don't think. Don't think…Just follow your instincts. What does your body want?' Jon murmurs against Sherlock's lips.

At Jon's words, Sherlock's primitive needs, coiled inside him his entire life, tear off the shackles of his self-abnegation and he moans into Jon's mouth and descends on him with a passion he didn't know he possessed. His body's purposeful movements belie the chaos in his mind. He operates on pure instinct, crushing Jon against his body. Their mouths clash violently, hurting each other, claiming each other with lips and tongue and teeth. It is feral and raw; it wounds them but they want more. Sherlock's nails scratch red trails down Jon's back and he cries out when he feels Jon's fingers dig into his arse cheeks and squeeze the beautiful flesh hard.

Jon senses that Sherlock is overwhelmed and pulls away. They are both panting hard and Sherlock looks petrified.

'Are you alright? Do you want to stop?'

'No!' Sherlock almost shouts and roughly pulls Jon back into his arms. 'No! Give me everything. Show me everything!'

'Everything? There is a _lot_ we can do. But we can also take it slow.'

'No! I don't _want_ to take it slow! I don't want to wait. Everything, Jon!'

'Sherlock…'

'Don't make me wait anymore. Don't', Sherlock pants.

'Do you want to take me?'

Sherlock's brow furrows and he blinks at Jon, not understanding.

'Do you want to be inside me?' he asks softly, drawing Sherlock's hand to his own cleft while the fingers of his other hand ghost over Sherlock's cock.

'I don't know _what_ I want, Jon!' Sherlock sounds pained. 'I want anything you'll give me. I'm trusting myself to you. What do _you_ want?'

Jon is silent. He desperately wants to fuck Sherlock into his fur blankets but he is a virgin and it might be premature to penetrate him this first time and Jon is nothing if not considerate. But he hopes desperately that there will be a second time when he can. And a third time, and a fourth and…

'Jon, please! What do you want?' Sherlock pleads.

'I want you inside me.'

'Then that is what I want. I want to be inside you. Show me, Jon. Show me!'

Jon closes his eyes. When he opens them again, Sherlock can see he has made up his mind.

'Lie on the bed. I'll be back in a minute', he says and heads into the bath chamber.

He returns in a few minutes and lies down on the bed next to Sherlock and is immediately enveloped by a long, thin body that begins to drop yearning kisses on his face and lips while slender fingers quest over his body. Sherlock is more at ease with his own body and Jon's this time and his fingers draw circles in Jon's scalp as he pulls him close and presses the length of his naked flesh against Jon's, feeling their erections hardening even further. Then Jon pulls away and hands Sherlock a small vial.

'Whale oil', he explains. 'Put some on your fingers.'

Sherlock obeys and runs the slick fluid on his finger tips and twists his hands, watching it flow down the length of his fingers. Jon lies on his side facing Sherlock, lifts his upper leg and places his thigh on Sherlock's hip. He takes Sherlock's hand and draws it over his own hip down to his cleft.

'You'll need to prepare me if you're going to be inside me. Start with your fingers and stretch me.'

Sherlock's pupils are blown and he stares at Jon. His hand is still over Jon's hip.

'It's alright. We'll take it slow. I'm with you, I'm with you', Jon soothes him and leans forward to place a brief kiss on that beautiful open mouth and pulls back. 'You have to prepare me, Sherlock', he says with an encouraging smile.

Sherlock looks down at his own hand and his fingers slickly run along the length of Jon's cleft and press inside to find his hole. His eyes fly up to Jon's, asking for permission which he is given with a brief nod. Sherlock pushes in with one finger and watches conflicting expressions ghost across Jon's face – his forehead and eyes crease in pain and he hisses against the burn but then, after a few seconds, his face relaxes as his hole unclenches and Sherlock's finger is allowed entrance. Sherlock swallows and pushes his finger deeper and pulls it out and pushes it back again. He is fascinated by the clench of Jon's hot rim around his finger. Jon's eyes are closed. His head is thrown back, away from Sherlock and each breath from his lips is hot and when Sherlock adds a second finger and then a third, Jon begins to utter soft cries and Sherlock _has_ to have those sounds because they come from Jon. He shifts on the bed to grab Jon's hair with his other hand, roughly pulls his head forward and covers his mouth with his, swallowing his mewls and licking into his mouth desperately while his fingers push into Jon's hole, hard and deep, quickening his pace, fucking him on top and below.

Jon's arms curl around Sherlock's waist and he slowly pushes Sherlock onto his back and straddles him, Sherlock's hand still embedded in him as he moves his hips, fucking himself on those long fingers. He kisses Sherlock deeply, carefully, running his tongue along his teeth, licking the smooth insides of his cheeks and the webbed skin below his tongue, teasing the ridges along the roof of his mouth, laving the rough surface of his hot tongue, drawing the other man's shivering breath into his own mouth. Jon's fingers card through those soft, dark curls, tousling the unruly mop even more and when he pulls back, his thoughts falter at the heart-stoppingly beautiful sight of the blissful face looking up at him. His first thought is that Sherlock's eyes have darkened and then he notices blown black pupils eclipsing gray irises. The plump lips are reddened from all of Jon's wet and almost unkind caresses and a delicate pink flush has spread over those pale, hollow cheeks, making Sherlock look more alive, more human than Jon had ever seen him look.

'Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock…do you even know how beautiful you are? How can it be that no one has touched you before this? It's so…wrong!'

'There was no one I _wanted_ to touch me before you.'

'I want to touch you. Can I touch you?'

'Yes, yes!'

Jon reaches around and clasps Sherlock's wrist to gently pull his fingers out of his hole. He leans over to the night table to hand Sherlock a small cloth to clean his hand and then dips his head to press a kiss to the soft skin behind Sherlock's ear and draws his open mouth in a wet stripe down his long neck. His lips pause at the base of Sherlock's throat to suck the satiny skin hard and his heart constricts, knowing that a beautiful, purple bruise will blemish the pale flesh the next day, knowing that he is the first person to mark this mesmerizing, mysterious man. His face presses into the milky, sweat-moistened skin and he breathes hard through his nose, feeling the tendrils of Sherlock's musk fill his senses and wrap their fingers around his pleasure centre in his brain; he sighs heavily and slides down Sherlock's body, his nose still breathing in Sherlock's intoxicating scent as his lips drop soft kisses on his shoulders and chest and then pull a dusky nipple into his mouth in a thirsty suck, tasting the salt from Sherlock's clean sweat on his skin. As his tongue swipes across the budded flesh over and over, his lips tighten their suction on the surrounding flesh. A groan rumbles from Sherlock's belly to his throat and escapes through his open mouth when Jon's teeth run lightly across Sherlock's nipple, grating over the sensitive flesh, nipping and dragging on the hard bud. Sherlock's hands are painfully tight on Jon's shoulders and his legs start to thrash about under Jon's hips.

'Ease down, ease down', Jon pulls away and tries to calm Sherlock. 'I can stop if it's too much', he offers.

Sherlock's eyes snap open and the tendons in his neck are stretched into two sharp columns as he holds his head up.

'No! Don't stop, don't stop!' he implores Jon.

Jon lifts himself to move up Sherlock's body and bowing his torso, dips his head to capture Sherlock's lips in a tender kiss and presses his lips to the hollow at the base of his throat, already turning a bright pink from his earlier caresses.

'I won't stop till you ask me to. I have you, Sherlock. Do you trust me?'

'I trust you, Jon.'

'Then lie back and get ready to have the heavens open up to you', Jon says with a loaded smile.

'The heavens…?' Sherlock begins to ask but is cut off.

'Shh…don't think. Just feel', Jon says as he kisses a wet trail down Sherlock's torso, stopping only when he reaches his hips. He nuzzles the coarse, dark bush at the base of Sherlock's cock and then moves his hand down to curl his fingers around the thick shaft. It feels hot and throbs in his grip and he squeezes a little and smiles when he hears a rasping moan of helplessness above him. Lowering his head, he presses his lips to the swollen tip and then pushes out his tongue to lick the taut, silken bulb, dipping in a little to taste the pearly bead of pre-come sitting in the slit.

'Unnhhh!' Sherlock moans and his fingers tighten in Jon's hair. Encouraged, Jon lowers his head a little more to suck the turgid glans into his mouth, sliding his lips over the velvet skin in a yearning suck. Sherlock's bucking hips put paid to any intentions Jon has of undoing him slowly – the first involuntary jerk of Sherlock's hips pushes his penis half way into Jon's mouth, poking into his cheek. He has just moved his head to reposition Sherlock's cock in the center of his mouth when the second thrust finds his throat closing around Sherlock's glans as his entire cock is enveloped inside Jon's mouth.

Jon doesn't mind and begins to hum around Sherlock's cock, bobbing his head up and down slowly, tormenting and tantalizing Sherlock's sensitive flesh, feeling his lover's thighs clench around his ribs as Sherlock fights to maintain control of his body. Sherlock is awash in a flood of sensation. His body trills in ways he had never imagined and couldn't ever conceive and only his trust in Jon keeps him from bolting. Jon's hands gently stroke his hips in a slow, comforting rhythm and Sherlock feels cared for, cherished. He feels _safe_. Jon's mouth is hot and wet around his cock and Sherlock is astounded to discover that a part of his body that had, so far, only served a biological purpose was now able to ignite his entire being, every bit of his skin tingling with the thrill that Jon was giving him. When Jon's hands cup his balls and lightly, very lightly knead the firm globes in their loose sac, his mouth still teasing and sucking his cock, Sherlock feels a jolt of pleasure shoot through him and his torso jerks and bows away from the bed and then begins to shake with the growing force of his impending orgasm. Jon realizes Sherlock is close and quickly pulls off his cock, panting.

'I'm ready now, Sherlock!' he gasps. 'Will you take me? Please!'

'Unnnhh! Yes, yes, Jon…I want to take you now', Sherlock gasps.

Jon sits back on Sherlock's thighs, gasping when his arse cheeks press onto Sherlock's bony knees. He reaches for the vial of whale oil, and pours a little onto his palm and fingers and reaches for Sherlock's cock.

'I'm just slicking you up a bit. It'll make it easier for me to take you inside. Alright?'

Sherlock nods and his Adam's apple jumps nervously under the thin skin of his neck.

Jon strokes Sherlock's cock a few times luxuriously, savouring the slide of silken flesh under his hand, feeling the heat from the throbbing shaft seep into his palm as he draws his hand from root to tip, over and over and stops only when he notices Sherlock biting his lower lip so hard that the blood has fled, leaving the abused flesh white and indented with teeth marks. A frisson of possessiveness runs along his spine as he looks down at the flushed cock in his hand, recalling that his mouth had just claimed that flesh. He has planted his flag on the miracle of flesh and blood that is Sherlock. He wants Sherlock like he has never wanted anyone before, man or woman. Sherlock is so…singular, so extraordinary. Jon knows he will never meet anyone like this beautiful man with skin of milk, lying trusting and unguarded under him for his taking.

'Ready?' he asks, his voice rough with want.

Sherlock nods again.

Jon curls his fingers around Sherlock's slick cock, lifts his hips and positions the shaft at his entrance. He looks up into Sherlock's eyes and slowly sinks down to impale himself. Inch by inch he takes him in, all the while holding Sherlock's gaze, until Sherlock is finally fully seated inside Jon's passage.

Sherlock's mind is a haze of mystic colours, blue like Jon's eyes, orange like the flames fanning through his body, white like the blinding light behind his eyes, purple like the twilight sky. He has ceded control to Jon and he never wants it back. There is a hypnotic minimalism to the vibrations coursing through his body, steady and regular, like the calming beat of a courageous heart, Jon's heart beating around him. His hips begin to move under Jon and Jon's hips respond and move over him, undulating, rising and falling, taking Sherlock deeper inside than either of them had thought possible. Jon begins to rock himself hard over Sherlock, leaning back to place his hands on Sherlock's knees and stabbing himself on Sherlock's cock. His own cock bounces with each stab. Sherlock's hand reaches out to grasp the shaft and stroke it but his palm is rough against Jon's thin, sensitive skin.

'Oil!' Jon gasps and Sherlock squirts some oil on his palm and returns to stroking Jon. He feels Jon's cock twitch and throb in his hand and quickens his strokes and in a few minutes, Jon cock is spurting viscous ropes onto Sherlock's stomach and chest and he watches, enthralled, as the swollen flesh visibly palpitates, each pulse terminating in another stream of searing white fluid. Jon cries out and his lips tear open in a wide snarl – is he in pain? Sherlock fears he is hurting Jon and begins to pull out of him but Jon pushes himself forward and bends over Sherlock to kiss him.

'Thank you, thank you. Oh god, Sherlock, you're so beautiful! Sherlock, Sherlock…' Jon murmurs between wet kisses. He closes his eyes and kisses Sherlock over and over. Sherlock moans in protest when Jon begins to pull off him and tightens his arms around Jon.

'We're not stopping', he reassures Sherlock in a soft voice. 'I promise we're not. I'm just turning over…Let me lie on my back, Sherlock. It'll be easier for me to take you like that, now that I've come', he explains and pulls off Sherlock.

He swings his leg off the pale man and settles on his back, looking up at Sherlock's flushed face. His knees are spread wide and his arse is offered to Sherlock as he invites him between his legs.

'Take what you need, Sherlock', Jon husks.

Sherlock peers through the haze in his mind and realizes what Jon wants him to do; he positions himself between Jon's thighs, pushes his knees further apart and enters him again. Jon's hole is looser and receptive and Sherlock easily presses all the way inside till his balls slap against Jon's arse. He lowers himself onto his forearms on either side of Jon and with a strangled cry begins to spear hard into his slickness, feeling the blond man's body rock back with each thrust, the wooden bed creaking from the force of their vigorous coupling. Jon's golden torso is clenched, the lean hard muscles tensed with the effort of holding his body against Sherlock's. Jon lifts his arms to hold on to the headboard and wraps his legs hard around Sherlock's hips as he weathers his unrelenting stabs and groans with pleasure when he feels the shaft inside him growing longer and thicker, rubbing against his prostate over and over. His eyes close and his mouth falls open as he comes again in a second, attenuated orgasm, his semen slowly dripping from his untouched cock onto his belly.

He abandons himself to Sherlock's heat - Sherlock's hot skin sliding over his, his fevered breath fanning over his neck while his sizzling cock moves inside him. When Sherlock's frenzied movements become feral and his girth becomes uncomfortably large, Jon's eyes fly open and he stiffens in stunned silence when he sees that Sherlock's hair is growing out into long, dark and straight locks. The colour of his eyes is turning metallic, silver rather than gray. Sherlock's body has begun to expand and his skin slowly takes on a bluish tinge and glowing, silver patterns are forming on his face and arms and chest. Jon instinctively scrambles to push this strange being off him, clawing at his skin but Sherlock's hips still and his hands immediately grab Jon's arms and Jon is unable to move, pinioned under Sherlock's body. Not a sound escapes their lips as the captive silently struggles with his captor.

Each involuntary clamp of Jon's passage around Sherlock's cock triggers a seismic wave of pleasure that rocks through him, radiating out to every nerve ending in his body. He begins to tremble with the effort of holding back but refuses to surrender to his overpowering primal desires, knowing he would depredate the body that was willingly offered to him and is now beginning to twist in pain under him. He looks down at angry red stripes sprouting on Jon's arms and chest where his nails have scratched trails of anguish down the golden skin, dark bruises forming where his teeth have hurt Jon and remorse crushes his heart as a soft plea for forgiveness and permission streams from his lips, just a desperate whisper – _PleaseJonPleaseJonPleaseJon._

Jon looks up in dismay at the blue stranger buried in him, thinking he should be afraid. But he only sees Sherlock in those exotic, silver eyes. It is _Sherlock_ calling to him and he looks lost and fragile and terrified. The patterns on his face glow but his features are devoid of aggression; they only convey a deep fear of letting go of Jon, as though he is his one anchor to reality. When he sees that Sherlock means him no harm, Civilian Jon becomes Warrior Jon and his apprehension dissolves into wonder. He is as intrigued as he is alarmed and is about to speak when Sherlock's mouth falls on his and moves in wet, frantic and sloppy kisses. Jon kisses back, stroking that beautiful face, humming softly to calm Sherlock through his agony and when the gorgeous blue alien has stilled a little, he murmurs against Sherlock's lips.

'I know you won't hurt me, Sherlock. Take what you need.'

He moves his hips a little so that his over-sensitized prostate is no longer tortured by Sherlock's pounding. Parting his lips to kiss Sherlock, he swallows a grateful cry as Sherlock begins to fuck into him again. His head falls to Jon's chest and long, black locks fall thickly over his face, covering his beautiful features. Jon sees the muscles undulating in Sherlock's hunched shoulders and back as his hips continue to move between Jon's legs. He sees his own legs wrapped around Sherlock's hips and a brief quiver of pleasure runs up his spine. Sherlock's lips have taken on a purplish tinge and they part in a snarl to expose his white teeth and pink tongue as his mouth opens in a soft gasp. He throws his head back, flipping his long hair like an ebony curtain to reveal a long sinewy neck pulled tight as his angular features contort in a silent scream of ecstasy when outside, the skies tumble, lightning crashes in furious streaks and pregnant clouds collide, the thunderous rumble shaking the very core of Asgard.

As the thunder calms, Sherlock falls on Jon's chest, hard and heavy and he comes and comes, still pushing erratically and weakly inside Jon whose passage is stretching with every gush of his seed while the skies weep tears of snow. When Sherlock finally stops spurting inside him, Jon pushes his hips off him and turns to his side, his chest heaving as he tries to lengthen his breaths, his heart continuing to race. He luxuriates in the erotic feeling of Sherlock's slick come slowly leaking out of him and running down his thighs. They lie in silence, sticky, obscene and so exquisitely intimate that the smallest word would be a vulgar disturbance in this perfect moment.

Jon looks back to see Sherlock lying on his stomach, his head turned the other way and his thick hair spread like a black shroud on the white pillow. Jon reaches out to caress his head and run his fingers through his silken tresses. He wants to know everything about Sherlock. He wants to know who he really is. Was Sherlock a Jötnar? He wants to know whence he hails, why he is here, why he followed Jon, what he is thinking this very minute, if he liked what he just did with Jon and would want to do it again. If he likes _Jon_. _Does_ he like Jon?

'Sherlock…', he calls softly. 'Sherlock…'

Sherlock doesn't answer and Jon can hear his steady breathing in the otherwise quiet room. Sherlock seems exhausted and he, too, is fatigued from the day's exertions in the arena and in his bed just now. The fact that the man with whom he has just had sex is also a shape-shifter, albeit apparently benevolent, is more than he can process right this minute and his face stretches in a yawn as he allows himself to be drawn into the comforting darkness of sleep. He resolves to ask Sherlock all his questions when they awake.

On the other side of the bed Sherlock is still, looking through the window, his eyes frozen on a point in the sky. He hears Jon calling to him but seems to have temporarily lost the power of speech. His body has always been merely a corporeal vessel for his intellect but today his mind became its slave. He feels deranged, like his brain has been short-circuited. In a moment of weakness, his brain shut down and his body took over as he unintentionally revealed not only his utter inexperience in matters of the flesh but also his true form to Jon.

His body has opened worlds to him that he had never imagined could exist. The sensations he experienced seem almost illusory and he wants to know if they can be recreated. This sensory overload has sent his internal compass spinning out of control and he is unable to tell fantasy from reality. He dare not close his eyes because when he does, he sees himself plummeting through the cosmos, hurtling towards nothing, shooting past planets and stars and galaxies not knowing when or even _if_ he will come to a stop. So he keeps his eyes open, desperately staring at that one fixed point in the night sky – a small green dot that used to be home.

_He needs Jon_. He needs Jon to pull him back to reality, hold him down. Just hold him. But why would Jon want to have anything to do with him after he learned the truth? He needs Jon but has nothing to offer him in return.

A debilitating torpor afflicts his limbs, as though his strength has been drained through his ejaculate and he feebly drags his wilting body off Jon's bed to curl up against the wall. Wrapping his limp arms around himself he crouches on floor, rudderless and adrift on a sea of unfamiliar and overwhelming thoughts and sensations and _feelings_. He has never _felt_ anything for anyone else before. He looks to Jon, silently entreating him to hold him and steer him through this turbulence but Jon has turned away from him. Jon is asleep. And Sherlock is alone.

Jon doesn't stir when the door opens and closes.


	4. Who are you?

Chapter Summary: Sherlock reveals his true identity to Jon.

Chapter Notes: Plot- and concept-heavy chapter which will put the rest of the story in context.

* * *

**Who are you?**

_Jon doesn't stir when the door opens and closes._

* * *

When Jon finally awakens, he rolls onto his back and sees that Sherlock is no longer in his bed. He notes that all of Sherlock's clothes lie strewn on the floor and sighs when he realizes the other man has left his home naked. He doesn't know why Sherlock left but he knows he will search for him and bring him back. Not only because he wants answers to all his questions but also because he doesn't want to think of Sherlock shivering to death in the biting cold and sticking out like a blue beacon against the pristine snow.

With a pained grunt, Jon pushes himself out of bed, wipes himself clean of Sherlock's dried come and pulls on his clothes. His body aches and he feels a sharp twinge between his arse cheeks as his abused hole protests the slightest movement or friction. He bundles Sherlock's clothes and boots in a fur coat, binds it with a leather cord and hooks it over his shoulder. Peering out of his window, he sees the sun has set and kindles a torch to take with him as he heads out in search of his missing…what was Sherlock to him? Not a friend. Not a companion. A stranger with whom he had had sex?

A gusting wind howls in his ears and blows the hood of his fur coat off his head as soon as he steps out of the warmth of his home, the icy blast biting his cheeks. He curses and flips his hood back over his head and pulls it tight. The snowfall has ceased and a ragged and broken set of stumbling footprints and a few handprints tell him that Sherlock has retreated to the forest a short distance away from his home. A most unexpected twinge of concern blooms in his chest as he imagines Sherlock falling and dragging himself through the snow some of the way before struggling to his feet again.

A few minutes later he reaches the edge of the forest and sees a path cut through the trees where Sherlock has crashed through the thicket, trying to hold himself up by grabbing onto branches, his hands slipping down their length as his strength falters, tearing off their leaves and pulling off entire boughs before collapsing to the ground. He stops when he finds Sherlock curled up like a foetus under a tree. His tattoos no longer glow and his naked blue flesh quivers like a leaf in the cold while his long black locks fall over his face and spread out like a fan behind him. A surge of compassion rushes through Jon and in that moment, he sees Sherlock for the vulnerable man he is under that intimidating blue exterior – frail, unprotected and friendless in a strange land.

He drops to his knees in the snow beside him. Sherlock in his blue form is still slender for his height but he is now noticeably taller and broader than he and Jon grunts with the effort of lifting him up to lean against the tree. He tries to maneuver Sherlock's arms into a tunic that no longer fits his broader frame and ultimately gives up. Thankfully, Sherlock's trousers and boots still fit him and Jon gets his arms into his fur coat, wraps it tight around his body and ties it around his waist before pulling the hood over his head to conceal his foreign features. Sherlock is too weak to sit upright and hold himself up against the tree and falls back down into the snow when the snap of a twig grabs Jon's attention.

Jon swings his torch around and freezes when he finds himself looking into the shining eyes of a wolf. An Alpha. It stands alone at the vanguard, its pack bringing up the phalanx in the rear. The Alpha lowers its head and emits a low, menacing growl. Its lips curl back in a snarl, exposing its formidable canines as it locks eyes with Jon, silver holding blue just like Sherlock and Jon not an hour back. The beast takes a step forward, its paws sinking softly in the virgin snow and Jon rises to his feet to take a corresponding step, placing himself between the wolf and Sherlock's prone body. He shifts his torch to his left hand and draws his sword with his right; with a hiss, he waves both torch and sword at the wolf as the two Alphas size each other up, preparing to attack. The wolf rears on its hind legs and lunges at Jon. His arm rises instinctively and a moment later the wolf falls to the ground, twitching and whimpering as Jon pulls his sword from its throat, watching the snow turn red below the gash in its neck.

The other wolves take a step back but don't disperse. Jon takes a few determined strides forward, sweeping his sword in front of his body like a scythe, shooing them away with his flaming torch. When they don't retreat, he turns to the alpha wolf which has since died, locks eyes in sequence with the three wolves at the front of the pack and plunges his sword thrice into the dead Alpha's stomach. This silent display of unequivocal dominance seems to convince the pack that their leader is dead because they sit on their haunches, point their snouts at the moon and commence a loud and dolorous howl. A few minutes later, still howling, they turn tail and lope away into the misted wilderness.

Jon's chest collapses and the breath he hadn't realized he was holding in forms a gust of mist in the cold. Adrenaline floods his veins and he feels his heart hammering in his chest as he pulls his coat tight around his body and walks back to Sherlock, kneeling in the snow beside him and pulling him upright to lean against the tree.

'Sherlock, Sherlock, wake up. Sherlock', he calls, lightly slapping the man's icy, sunken cheeks.

'Unnhhh', he hears Sherlock groan and the knot in his heart relaxes a little at the realisation that he is conscious.

'Sherlock, I cannot carry you. Can you stand? My home is ten minutes away. Can you walk?'

'So tired…'

'Sherlock, come on. You can lean on me. You're icy cold. We have to get you warm. Now! Come on, I've got you. Hold on to me. That's it, that's it', he encourages as he helps the taller man to his feet.

Sherlock's arm encircles Jon's shoulders and he leans heavily on him, mechanically dragging one foot in front of the other as they begin the short but arduous trek back to Jon's home. Once inside, Jon gently lowers Sherlock on his bed and pulls off his boots. He fires up the hearth and sits beside Sherlock to take his frozen hands in his own. He rubs them hard for a long time and blows warm breath on them, feeling the blue skin slowly warm up. He moves to Sherlock's feet and rubs each foot vigorously until it warms up. Pulling the fur blanket over Sherlock, he tucks it below his chin and watches plumes of breath mist form above the inert man's face as he breathes labouriously through dry lips.

Sherlock lies motionless for a long time and Jon keeps watch over him, stirring whenever the blue stranger whimpers or groans or shifts under the blanket. When Sherlock's eyes finally flutter open, they search his surroundings, flitting over the ceiling and walls of Jon's room, his furniture, the crackling fire in the hearth and then come to rest on the slumbering, blonde head of Jon lying exhausted on its owner's outstretched arm on the bed. Sherlock's hand emerges from under the blanket and strokes Jon's hair gently. His chest is close to bursting from a surfeit of gratitude. It is a peculiar feeling - Sherlock, who has never held any regard for anyone else or had anyone care for him all his life has been rescued from certain death, either from the cold or from being ripped to shreds by wolves, by the man whose assistance he had sought and whose body he had very nearly abused in the throes of an inexorable passion.

Jon's head slowly lifts from his arm and he blinks to clear his vision, his face knotted in concern when he sees Sherlock's glassy eyes looking down at him.

'What were you thinking, stepping out in the cold naked and unarmed?' he says in a voice gravelly with sleep.

'I wasn't thinking.'

'No, you weren't', Jon agrees.

'Jon…please forgive me. I don't know what came over me. I was not in control of my body, my mind.'

'Yes, I see that now. Are you really Sherlock?'

'I am not Sherlock.'

'Are you an ice Jötun?'

'What is an ice Jötun?'

'A frost giant from Jötunheimr?'

'No.'

'Well, then it's time you came clean on who you really are and what you really want with me. I think I've earned the truth.'

'It's a long story.'

'Neither of us is going anywhere until you tell me everything.'

Sherlock sighs and begins to speak.

'I am from the planet Nibiru and I am here to save my planet.'

'You're from another _planet_?!' Jon flinches, almost shouting in alarm. 'You must think me a gullible fool.'

'I'm not lying to you, Jon.'

'Fuck. This is unreal! Do you _really_ expect me to believe you are an alien and that we are not the only inhabitants of the universe?'

'You're not. There are at least seven other inhabited planets in this galaxy. Legend has it that my planet was the first to be formed in this galaxy. The supreme god was Anu. His two sons, Enlil and Enki, and their descendants became the Annunaki and ruled over Nibiru. Each god was possessed of a different divine power. As soon as the seven other planets were formed, the Annunaki projected their astral incarnations to form the local pantheon of gods before consciousness could enter the life forms on these newborn worlds.'

'So you're saying every god in my pantheon has originated from an equivalent Annunaki?' Jon laughs nervously.

Sherlock nods and watches Jon for any changes in his expression. Jon clears his throat.

'And how were the other seven planets formed?'

'That particular knowledge has been lost for eons.'

'So, you're not really a historian. You're an alien from the planet Nibiru, here to save your planet and you think I can help you with that.'

'Yes.'

'How so?'

'It might be easier to show you. Our blood will need to mingle for that. It's a temporary exchange of memories. May I?'

Jon nods. Sherlock pulls open his fur coat at the top. He picks up Jon's knife from the bedside table and makes a small cut on his chest.

'Give me your hand', he says, holding his own out to Jon.

Jon places his hand, face up, in Sherlock's hand and grimaces when Sherlock makes a small cut in his palm. He pulls Jon's hand up and places the wound in Jon's palm over the wound in his chest.

In a few moments, Jon feels time slowing down. A few moments later, time stands still. A trance washes over him and his vision goes white while a low drone thrums through his veins. As his awareness of his externalities fades, his awareness of his internalities is heightened. He can hear the gurgle of blood as it rushes through his veins, he can feel his lungs expanding inside his ribcage with every intake of breath, he can trace the slow descent of saliva along his throat to his stomach each time he swallows. This awareness seems to emanate from the point where the laceration in his palm is pressed against the cut in Sherlock's chest. Vision is redundant – it is as though he is seeing with his skin. Every millimeter of skin is alive and buzzing with sensory receptors. Every beat of his heart thuds through his entire body, unhurried and heavy. When a second string of thumps joins his heart, he recognizes Sherlock's heart beating in time with his own. It feels utterly natural, like Sherlock's heart was always meant to beat in cadence with his.

When he opens his eyes Sherlock is looking at him. The blue being is outside but he is also inside Jon. A mystical halo of purple and red has appeared around Sherlock's head and Jon's mouth falls open as he sees, no, _feels_ a tingling, luminescent connection form between their eyes. An instant later, a crashing flood of images invades his brain and his synapses light up with this unexpected barrage of information as Sherlock takes him back in time.

* * *

-oooOOOOOOOooo-

A resounding bellow announced the arrival of Enlil, God of the Heavens, in the Great Hall of Nibiru. He cut a majestic figure in a swirl of crimson and gold robes that framed his tall body. His long strides took him to his regal throne and he fell into the red velvet seat in an undignified heap, almost folded in on himself.

'I feel weak, Ninlil', he loudly complained to his wife, the Goddess of the Wind.

'Your malady appears to be shared by our children', Ninlil informed him. 'In fact I, too, have been feeling weary of late.'

Their usually emerald skin had taken on a sallow tinge.

'I haven't seen Nidaba for a few weeks. She wasn't at her post in the Great Library either. Has she really taken ill or is she simply no longer capable of or interested in performing her duties as Goddess of Knowledge?' Enlil asked disapprovingly.

'She must be ill, Enlil. She and Nergal were both feeling this malaise. You are a kind father, I know. Sometimes you just don't know how to show it', Ninlil responded fondly.

'Nidaba hasn't been seen since before the last Council. That is too long an absence.'

'Well, if you must be upset with your children, why spare your brother? Enki, too, has been missing. Perhaps the God of the Underworld is also avoiding his duties!' Ninlil said playfully.

'Has he, indeed?'

'Yes. Ninhursag told me she hasn't seen her husband for over four weeks. In fact, your nephew, Asag, also disappeared around the same time. I wonder if these absences are related.'

'Alright, let's find out. I will cancel the Council of the Gods today. Find Nergal and join me in the Library', Enlil instructed and exited the Great Hall.

He marched down the gleaming marble hallways of his palace, passing tall columns of alabaster covered with ornate sculptures and beautiful inscriptions as he made his way to the Great Library. As expected, Nidaba was not in the Main Hall. A sliver of light caught his eye and he turned around to see the door to the Vault open a crack. _That is odd_, he thought. _The Vault holds all of Nibiru's secrets and is to be shut securely at all times. Nidaba is the Keeper of Secrets. It is not like her to be negligent._

He pushed the door open and rushed, with a cry of distress, to Nidaba's lifeless body lying on the floor of the Vault by the eastern wall. Dark blood stained her white robes and the white floor in now-dry patches. The stark contrast between the rusty red blood and the pristine, white marble lent the whole scene a perversely grisly tone. Nidaba's skin was a pale celadon, all the blood having drained out of her dead veins and her mouth was open wide, frozen in an ugly grimace. A huge stab wound had ripped her stomach open, right across from below the left rib to the right.

'Nidaba! My child!' Enlil bewailed as his shoulders began to shake with the force of unbidden tears at the loss of his only daughter.

The door to the Vault flew open and he was joined by a horrified Ninlil and Nergal. Ninlil collapsed to her knees beside her dead daughter, sobbing hysterically. Nergal, God of War, was equally distraught but he marshaled his control and wiped away his tears, swearing to avenge his sister's murder.

Ever vigilant, he quickly scanned the Vault for any clues about the murderer and cursed in frustration when he couldn't find any signs of a forced entry or a struggle.

The air in the Crypt grew heavy with an oppressive sense of foreboding and gloom smothered the hearts of the three gods.

'Father, what do we do?' Nergal asked, his voice hoarse with despair.

'Leave now. I need time to think. Wait for me in the Great Hall.'

Ninlil and Nergal left Enlil in the Library and awaited him in the Great Hall of Nibiru. When Enlil finally rejoined them, his face was determined and he issued a single instruction to Nergal.

'Find Shara!' he barked and began to pace the Great Hall. Ninlil knew better than to question her husband at this time and wisely retreated to their bedchamber.

An hour later, the great wooden door was pushed open and Shara stormed in. He was in a foul mood. His blue torso was bare and his dark hair streamed in long locks down his muscled back. An amulet was tied around his left bicep and he wore a tiger claw, set in a silver clasp, as a talisman around his neck. His trousers were tucked into knee-high boots. He carried no weapons other than a small knife, sheathed and strapped around his thigh, and his bow, the Sharanga, slung on his shoulder.

'Would it be an imposition for the Demigod of Thunder and War to clothe himself fully?' Enlil asked him, cocking a disapproving eyebrow at Shara's state of partial undress.

'Get on with it, Enlil. Why have you called me here?' Shara asked, clearly displeased with his sudden summons.

'Nidaba is dead. Murdered.'

'What!'

'I need you to do whatever it is you do. Find who did this and bring them to me.'

'I will need to see her body and the scene of the murder.'

'The Great Library. Come back here when you have something to report. Now go!'

Shara strode down the marbled hallways to the Great Library and threw open the door to the Crypt. Thankfully, Nidaba's body had not been moved. He knew how hard it must have been for Enlil to divorce himself from his filial bond and regard his only daughter as the victim of a murder.

His keen eyes darted around the room, cataloging the minutia that had no doubt escaped Nidaba's family – a small piece of dark fabric presumably ripped from the murderer, a telltale bloodstain on the scanner outside the door to the Vault that the murderer had forgotten to wipe clean.

He squatted on one leg, resting on his haunches beside Nidaba's corpse and pulled out his knife to make a small cut in his palm. He pressed his palm to the gash in Nidaba's stomach and their blood mingled. Although her body had been dead a few weeks, her divine blood still carried traces of her memories and within a few moments, Shara was seeing the events leading up to her murder through her eyes.

There wasn't much that could shock Shara but even he was horrified by the brutality with which Nidaba's life was taken. He saw Enki confronting Nidaba while Asag stood behind him, keeping watch on the door to the Main Hall. Enki compelled Nidaba to open the Vault and show him the Book of Genesis which was said to contain the origins of the Annunaki and the secrets to killing the Gods. When she refused, Enki stabbed her once and held her hand up to the scanner outside the Vault to use her palm print to open the door to the Vault.

A wounded Nidaba scratched wildly at his face and eyes and enraged, Enki stabbed her again in the stomach and drew his knife clear across her body, ripping her torso open in a gruesome gash. He contemptuously dropped her body to the floor and kicked her aside to ransack the bookshelves in the Vault, uttering a cry of delight when he found the Book of Genesis. Nidaba was still fighting to stay alive and pushed herself upright to sit up against a wall and through Nidaba's eyes Shara saw Enki peruse the book. The secrets of Genesis were about to be revealed to him when Nidaba's memories left her blood and their connection was broken.

Shara remained silent for a short moment before stepping away from Nidaba. Looking down at her lifeless body, he noticed that her empty gaze pointed towards a bookstand by the western wall. Kneeling and lowering his head to the floor, he swept his gaze below the bookstand and his eyes stopped on a piece of paper. He retrieved it and gasped when he saw that it was the last page of the Book of Genesis. He had just finished reading its contents when it disintegrated into a fine powder.

He rushed out of the Great Library.

'Bring Enlil here. Now!' he barked to the sentry keeping watch outside. The sentry ran to do his bidding.

In a few minutes, Nidaba's family was standing around Shara.

Shara locked the door to the Library and turned to address his audience.

'It was Enki.'

'Enki? It can't be!' Enlil gasped. 'How did you discover that?'

'Irrelevant. He murdered her for the Book of Genesis. Asag helped him. He has gone in search of the Kalki Astra.'

Enlil's face twisted with rage.

'Let us imprison Ninhursag!' Ninlil cried out.

'That will get us nothing. I don't think she had anything to do with this', Enlil said, his shoulders falling.

'What is it, Father? What is the Book of Genesis? And what is the Kalki Astra?' Nergal asked.

Enlil pressed a few buttons on the Central Console and an indiscernible door in the white wall slid open. A hush fell over Ninlil and Nergal as they tried to comprehend the sight that was revealed to them.

'What does all this mean, Enlil?' his wife asked him.

'These are the Quintessence Mandalās of the Annunaki', Enlil explained. 'When we projected our incarnations to the seven planets, each Annunaki's essence formed eight orbs of monatomic gold that comprise our Mandalās. These Mandalās keep us connected with our astral bodies.'

He walked over to his Mandalās. 'This central orb is Nibiru. The seven globes orbiting Nibiru represent the seven sister planets.'

He looked over at his daughter's Mandalā.

'When Nidaba died on Nibiru, her Mandalā turned completely black because all her avatars died at the same instant. There no longer is a Goddess of Knowledge anywhere in the Eight Realms.'

He pointed to their Mandalās in each of which only five orbs glowed.

'In each of our Mandalās, the orbs for Marduk, Shamhat and Kishar are all black because Enki has killed our incarnations on those planets. That is why we are weakened. We now only exist here, on Nibiru, and on Nóregr, Aegyptus, Graecia and Italia.'

Nergal was not convinced. 'I don't understand! _How_ is he able to kill our avatars? Are we not as powerful as he?'

'We are, but…Enki has located the Kalki Astra. It is a weapon of untold power.'

'The Kalki Astra? I have never heard of such a weapon', Nergal said, perturbed by this revelation. How had Enki procured a weapon unknown to the God of War?

'Its existence was only known to Enki and me. It is a flaming spear of white fire, powerful enough to destroy gods or even an entire planet. A Kalki Astra lies hidden on each of the seven satellite planets. Enki must have located it on Marduk, Shamhat and Kishar - that is the _only_ way he could have destroyed our incarnations.'

His wife and son waited breathlessly as Enlil stepped over to Enki's Mandalā.

'Do you see how Enki's own Mandalā emits a stronger glow? He has absorbed the power from our now-destroyed incarnations. Oh! I see what he is doing! He intends to destroy us all and rule as the one God. We _have_ to stop him before he reaches the other four satellites and destroys us there', he said gravely.

'So how do we stop Enki, Father?'

'I don't know! The answer was in the Book of Genesis and that is lost to us forever.'

'The Kalki Agni', Sherlock interjected.

'What?'

'That's how you stop him – with the Kalki Agni. There are five remaining Kalki Astras in existence, one on each of the four satellite planets and one on Nibiru. Combine them all to form the Kalki Agni, a weapon of destruction of galactic proportions and destroy Enki's Quintessence Mandalā here on Nibiru.'

'Of course, that's all there is to it!' Nergal snapped sarcastically. 'How the hell are we to find the other Kalki Astras?'

'Silence, Nergal!' Enlil's eyes narrowed and he watched Shara. 'Shara…you saw what Nidaba saw. You know where the Kalki Astras are hidden on the four satellites.'

'I might', Shara shrugged.

'You _do_. You could find them and send them back to Nibiru.'

'Why would I want to do that?'

'Well, _I_ would go but Nibiru will not run itself and you know how I hate _legwork_. You've always had the heart of a pirate, thirsting for adventure. I don't see you finding a better adventure than this, one that plays out on the seas of the cosmos.'

Enlil _knew_ Shara would go. His brain was like an engine, racing out of control. A rocket, tearing itself to pieces trapped on the launch pad. Shara was desperate to _think_, to _do something_.

'Well, there's really nothing interesting here on Nibiru. Alright. I'll go.'

-oooOOOOOOOooo-

* * *

A dizzying whirl of blinding light sizzles up Jon's spine and out of his eyes as the connection between him and Sherlock is broken and he is again the sole inhabitant of his body. He collapses on the bed, limp and shaking, his thoughts still scrambled from the psychic exchange of memories. When his body finally stops convulsing, he forces his eyes open and finds silver-gray eyes looking down at him. Their physical and psychic connection has transformed into an emotional bond, an ethereal link that is beyond physical expression or verbal definition. They simply _feel_ it, in their bones, in the core of their being. They were one.

'You're Shara. You're…_Shara_?' Jon whispers.

'Yes. Are you alright?' Sherlock asks him, his voice low and thick with concern.

'I think so…That was…What was all that?' Jon asks incredulously, his voice rough, breaking with amazement. He coughs.

'Jon…do you need to rest?'

'No! I don't need to rest!' Jon snaps and then continues to cough.

'Alright. Please calm down. I know you have questions.'

'You're damn right I do!'

'And I'm not going anywhere till I answer every last question.'

'I'll kill you if you do', Jon growls and lifts himself off his bed. He pours water in a bowl, dips his hands in it and swirls them around, watching a small whirlpool form and marveling at how closely the watery vortex reflects his own mental commotion. He forms a cup with his hands and lifts up some water to splash on his face. He does this once, twice, three times.

'Are you alright, Jon? Give me your hand', Sherlock says, still concerned for his host.

'Shut up. Just. Shut. Up.' Jon immediately regrets his brusque tone knowing Sherlock means well. _But he's not Sherlock, is he? He's Shara._ 'I'll be fine. I just need a minute', he adds in a softer voice. He holds out his hand to Sherlock.

'There's really no call for rudeness', Sherlock grumbles but runs his fingers gently over the wound in Jon's palm and Jon watches, speechless, as the gash heals, leaving behind perfectly unbroken skin.

'Forgive me. It's too much to assimilate. I have just received a crash course in the history of the universe as I know it; I have just learned that we are not alone in the universe and that the pale stranger who fucked me is actually a blue alien from another planet who heals wounds and is here to save his home world. As if that weren't enough excitement for one day, I am being recruited to help this alien in his quest. This is a rather atypical day in the life of Jon Wöttson.'

'I understand.'

'And you'll _always_ be Sherlock to me, never Shara. Sherlock. Can you understand _that_?' he snaps.

'It's just a label you and I have agreed to use to refer to me, just as Shara is my label used on Nibiru.'

'A label, yes. Of course you would say something like that.'

'In any case, I am not long for Nóregr. I have three other realms to visit', Sherlock huffs somewhat impatiently and Jon feels an unexpectedly bitter stab of disappointment.

_What was I expecting, anyway? That Sherlock / Shara would stay in Asgard? That I'd found a friend who would provide physical and mental companionship with the added perquisite of frequent sexual congress? Snap out of it, Jon Wöttson. You're a warrior and warriors do not have friends._

'Alright, I have questions. First, why are you on Nóregr now and not on Graecia, Italia or Aegyptus?'

'Very good, Jon! That is an excellent question!'

'I am glad I have impressed you. Now answer me please.'

'We transport ourselves across the cosmos using the Graha-Vāhan, a device which scrambles our atoms and reassembles them at the destination. Our atoms can only be scrambled across a maximum of one light year. Enki has already destroyed the pantheons on Marduk, Shamhat and Kishar. The next closest realm that is no more than one light year away is Nóregr. Given the constraints of the Graha-Vāhan, Enki's route will have to be Nóregr, Aegyptus, Graecia and finally Italia.'

'Alright, fine', Jon nods. 'I can understand that. But how do you make sure you get to the Kalki Astra on these four realms before he does?'

'Your perspicacity is rivaled only by your courage and kindness, Jon! After assimilating the divine essences of the pantheons on the planets he destroyed, Enki's altered form needs at least six days to stabilize before he can transport again. Any sooner and he risks death. He destroyed the pantheon on Kishar the day he arrived there. I landed in Nóregr the day after. By my calculations, I began with a five-day head start over Enki to find the Kalki and have squandered the past three days in establishing an association with you. Time is of the essence, Jon!'

'Fuck you, Sherlock! This delay isn't _my_ fault. Had you asked me nicely, I just might have helped you but you had to be yourself, a bloody annoying arse.'

'In my defence, I haven't had occasion to hone my skills in the domain of social intercourse.'

'Or sexual, for that matter', Jon snaps sotto voce.

'And', Sherlock doesn't hear Jon's remark and continues, 'my truth isn't one that is easily believed by even the most credulous of individuals, wouldn't you agree?'

'You have a gift for understatement. Anyway, why do you think _I_ can help you find the Astra on Nóregr?'

'You already know _where_ it is, Jon. You just don't know _that_ it is there!'

'Enough with the cryptic clues! Just _tell_ me!'

'_Cryptic_. How apposite that you should say that. The Astra on Nóregr is located in the crypt below Odin's throne in Valhalla. It takes two keys to open the crypt and both keys must be turned simultaneously to unlock it. You are Thor Odinson's General and can freely enter Valhalla. You are also the Keeper of the Left Key. The Right Key is with Odin.'

'Have you been possessed by the Spirit of the Wolf? I am no Keeper of Keys of any kind!'

'But you are, Jon! The pendant on the chain hanging around your neck is the Left Key!'

'What, this old thing?' Jon asks, pulling out his chain which is weighed down by a dull medallion of two serpents entangled in an eight-shaped knot and eating the other's tail. 'It belonged to my father and before him, his father. I suppose it's a sort of family heirloom.'

'Two identical medallions were forged when Nóregr was formed. This is Aürium, the Left Key to the crypt. Odin wears Iriüm, the Right Key, around his neck. You must get me to Odin so that I can explain my quest, retrieve the Astra and transport it to Enlil!'

'Why are you helping Enlil? You don't strike me as someone who takes sides.'

'I don't and the geopolitics on Nibiru do not interest me in the least but when my mind joined Nidaba's, I _felt_ her anguish as Enki murdered her in cold blood. I cannot explain this but when he destroyed the pantheons on Marduk, Shamhat and Kishar, my own body burned in a fire of despair. I heard the deafening cries of the dying gods in my head. I _felt_ them die, as though a part of me was dying. Enki is a reckless force of destruction. Although I owe no allegiance to Enlil, he _is_ the more stable brother and if I had to choose someone to watch over Nibiru, it would be Enlil.'

A surprised and bitter snicker slips through Jon's lips and he shakes his head in disbelief.

'You realize how ridiculous all of this sounds. How can you expect me to help you?'

'I _know_ you will help me.'

'Really? Do you read minds?'

'I don't need to read your mind to know you are brave. You came looking for me even when you suspected I am not of your world. You felt no fear.'

'That wasn't bravery, really. I knew I needn't fear you. If you'd wanted, you could've snapped my neck in two with the fingers of one hand. So…', Jon asks, his eyes cast towards to his hands in his lap as he toes the carpet. 'What else do you see in me?'

'Your eyes are kind and eyes are windows to the soul. You have a kind soul. You wouldn't allow a planet to be destroyed. There is an inherent goodness in you. You came looking for me because you couldn't allow me to roam the forest alone, naked and weakened, and only a goodhearted man would do that. And…' Sherlock pauses.

'There's more?' Jon asks.

'You weary of your staid existence. You crave the thrill of battle. You thirst for the excitement of combat.'

'Is that why you challenged me to a duel?'

'Obviously. Oh, I know you lost the last round on purpose.'

'Now _why_ would I do that? You seem to know everything else about me. So you must know that I'm fiercely competitive and hate losing.'

'You did it because if I lost, you'd never see me again', Sherlock pauses and Jon forgets to breathe. 'We both know you _wanted_ to see me again.'

Jon stays silent for a long moment and when he speaks again his voice is gravid with meaning.

'You lied.'

'I have not lied to you, Jon! Not once.' Sherlock takes umbrage at Jon's accusation.

Sherlock's righteous indignation is writ large on his expressive features and brings a fond smile to Jon's face.

'You _do_ read minds', he clarifies to placate Sherlock. 'Perhaps you wanted to see me again too', he continues, his gaze edged with uncertain hope.

'I have never denied that, Jon.'

'Alright, I will help you', Jon says with a grin which quickly disappears when he sees Sherlock's features readjust into a self-satisfied smirk while his eyes tell Jon _I knew you'd give in_.

'Don't be smug. I could always change my mind.'

Sherlock's smirk widens and he raises a lazy eyebrow and Jon can see that Sherlock is now telling him _No, you won't._

'Oh, alright, you bastard!' Jon huffs in surrender. 'I won't change my mind. Well', he sighs. 'There is nothing more to be done tonight.'

'I wouldn't say that. I am rested and I can think of a few ways to while away the night', Sherlock says in a voice so rough and low his words seem to be raking across the floor. His eyes have narrowed to thin slits and between his thick lashes Jon catches a sliver of irises which have shrunk to silver parentheses around huge, black pupils.

Jon licks his lips and swallows. Hard. Sherlock's insinuation is unmistakable.

'You're not serious.'

'I am. There is much I don't know. I am hungry for new experiences. I am hungry for knowledge.'

'Knowledge?' Jon snorts and raises an eyebrow. 'Is _that_ what we're calling it now?'

'What do you call it?'

'Sex', Jon proffers in a matter-of-fact voice.

'In that case, I'm hungry for sex.'

'Sherlock…you fell unconscious almost immediately after the last time! You still want more?'

'I want _everything_, Jon', Sherlock growls, his naked desire rolling off in waves from his hot body. 'I am hungry for _you_. Teach me your ways._'_

_This stunning alien with iridescent, arcane patterns of silver on miles of smooth blue skin, eyes like storm clouds and hair like the Night wants me to fuck him. And I want to fuck him. Every. Single. Way. I. Can. Imagine. Then when I'm done fucking him, when I have flooded him with my seed, I want to make love to him and take my time learning every inch of his beautiful body. There's but one answer to give, isn't there?_

'Well', Jon licks his lips again and reaches out to pull Sherlock's grinning face to his. 'If you put it like that, who am I to refuse? Come here, you beautiful, ravenous glutton for sex.'

* * *

**Author's notes:**

**Graecia / Aegyptus / Italia**: Greece / Egypt / Italy

**Jötunheimr**: One of the nine worlds in Norse mythology, home to the Rock Giants and Frost Giants

**Graha-Vāhan**: Graha - Sanskrit for Planet; Vāhan - Sanskrit for Vehicle

**Mandala**: Sanskrit for Circle; spiritual symbol for the universe in Indian mythology

**Kalki**: Destroyer of foulness/darkness/ignorance in Indian mythology

**Astra**: Sanskrit for Weapon

**Agni**: Sanskrit for Fire.


	5. The Twilight of the Gods

**Chapter Summary: **Devastation. Or Ragnarök

* * *

**The Twilight of the Gods**

'_I want everything, Jon', Sherlock growls, his naked desire rolling off in waves from his hot body. 'I am hungry for you. Teach me your ways.'_

'_Well', Jon licks his lips again and reaches out to pull Sherlock's grinning face to his. 'If you put it like that, who am I to refuse? Come here, you beautiful, ravenous glutton for sex.'_

Jon pulls Sherlock into his arms and presses his lips to his cheek, his closed eyes and his forehead and then lowers his face to kiss his full lips. Long, blue arms wrap around him in a warm embrace and Jon is taken back to Sherlock's transformation. His curiosity must be assuaged before his resurgent desire and he pulls away. Sherlock makes an annoyed sound but Jon will not be distracted.

'Why did you change your form when we were having sex?' Jon asks.

'It wasn't intentional. I've never assumed another form before and doing so took all my concentration. I think it's safe to say my concentration was obliterated when I was reaching climax', Sherlock smiles shyly. 'It was _very_ discomposing. I had no control over my mind or body and I suppose my disguise fell away. That must have been…shocking for you. Frightening, even? I am grateful, Jon, for your courage and your compassion, for seeing _me_ behind my changed exterior.'

'I'm not easily frightened but I won't pretend I wasn't alarmed at first. I mean, when I closed my eyes, you were a man and when I opened them, you were blue!' Jon laughs. 'But you were still _you_.'

'This is the beat of a strong heart, unaccustomed to fear', Sherlock concurs, pressing his lips to Jon's chest through his tunic.

'So…do you think you might be able to retain your human form while we…'

'I don't know. My mind was rendered powerless, so I doubt I will', Sherlock pauses. He bites his lips nervously and he looks away, unable to meet Jon's eyes. 'It would seem that…my real form is not agreeable to you. I understand, of course and you don't have to do anything you don't _want_ to. I…uh…I-', Sherlock stammers and shrinks from Jon.

'No, no! Sherlock! You misunderstand me. Please, don't turn away from me. You were simply…_stunning_ when you changed', Jon whispers. His fingers stroke his lover's cheek. 'I was convinced that your human form was the most exquisite vision I would ever have and then you transform into…_this_. My uneventful life has just been turned on its head, Sherlock. I wanted for little; the small comforts of life were satisfactory. Now you've shown me _so_ much and yet I want _more_. It's as though I was living half a life before you. Your transformation didn't frighten me, but this new bottomless wellspring of _want_ that didn't exist before I met you does. When we melded, I saw glimpses of _you_. I felt I had touched your soul and now I want to know everything about you. The man behind Shara or Sherlock or whatever other names you assume', Jon's voice hitches in frustration.

'Why? I have never been interesting to anyone before. I'm just…me', Sherlock's brows are bunched as he tries to understand Jon's fascination. He has always been an outsider on Nibiru and his contempt for other people is as much a defence mechanism as it is a genuine aversion to their vapid company. It is incomprehensible to him that a brave, kind and _pleasant_ man like Jon could find _him_, a brooding misanthrope and social misfit, desirable.

'Sherlock. Oh, Gods! You _bewitch_ me, you beautiful man', Jon husks softly, still stroking his face. 'I'd never have imagined something like this would be important to me and I can't explain it but I want to know what you were like as a boy, things that make you happy or sad, what your life is like on Nibiru. _Everything_ you are willing to share with me and while you speak to me of those things, my hands will want to touch you, my tongue will want to taste every inch of your body. You fill me with _hunger_. I want to know your most intimate parts and the sounds you make when I discover them. Feel the vibrations of your voice suffuse my blood. Run my fingers in your hair and capture forever the caress of your tresses as they sweep over my skin. Study every pattern on your skin and record the different textures on various parts of your body. Rough and masculine in some places, like on your palm but thin and delicate in others, like behind your ear. And when I have done all that, I…', he pauses and licks his lips. 'I want to know how it feels to be buried deep in your heat, slowly _fill_ you with my seed and be the first man to claim you. Will you let me?'

The visceral desire in Jon's gaze is tinged with something _more_ that neither of them can name just yet, something tender and unprotected. He feels as vulnerable as Sherlock looks as they search each other for signs, of what they don't know and then his eyes draw shut as Sherlock's face closes over his. A hot breath shivering over his mouth heralds the yielding press of Sherlock's lips and once again he is caught in a soft, wet dance of warm flesh. They sigh into each other's mouths, licking into the moist caverns with a tentative familiarity. Holding each other, they lie back on the bed and Sherlock turns to drape himself over Jon, allowing Jon's hands to reach inside his fur coat and push it off his shoulders. The coat slips off to the side and falls in a quiet heap on the floor. Sherlock's hands lie flat on Jon's hips and make their way under his tunic, slowly pushing it up all the way to his chest. Jon whimpers in protest when Sherlock pulls his mouth off and hisses as the cold air prickles his skin but then moans as his nipple is enveloped in the wet heat of Sherlock's mouth. His pink flesh darkens and hardens to a tight bud under Sherlock's tongue and his hands find their way into the long, black mane that lies splayed on his chest, feeling the head in his hands bob slowly with every sensuous suck on his sensitized flesh.

Sherlock pulls off Jon's nipple and moves up to kiss him again when the clarion call of a loud horn shatters the quiet night.

'Gjallarhorn!' Jon cries, scrambling to push Sherlock away.

'What is it?'

'Heimdallr is calling Odin's forces to arms. I have to go!'

'Wait! I'll come with you!' Sherlock gasps, pulling on his trousers, boots and fur coat.

* * *

They rush out of Jon's home, dodging distraught citizens streaming onto the snow-covered streets and stop to look up at the rising sun that has begun to peek from behind the horizon against a purple sky, a slice of orange that slowly fades to black while its amethyst backdrop also turns dark, eating up the stars and plunging the fair city of Asgard into absolute night. A stormy wind howls through the city like tormented jinni, madly fanning the flaming torches that now provide the only illumination as they make their way towards Valhalla. In the distance they hear the waves of the ocean crash violently on the rocks. The biting squalls are weighed down with moisture as rain washes over the city. Fishermen run frantically through the streets, heading for Valhalla and shouting about tidal waves the height of small hills crashing over their homes and sinking their villages.

Jon stops dead in his tracks when he realises that Sherlock no longer runs beside him. Turning around, he sees Sherlock lying on the ground in obvious pain, his arms folded and pressed into his stomach as he curls into a foetal position. Jon rushes back to his side.

'Sherlock! What's happening to you?!' He is aghast at the sight of Sherlock's tattoos which now glow a fiery red.

'The gods are dying. They're dying, Jon!' he cries out in agony. 'They're being murdered!'

'No! No! Ragnarök, the Twilight of the Gods, has begun just as Odin augured!' Jon cries with a shudder. 'What can I do to help you, Sherlock? I don't know! I should be by Thor's side!'

'Go! Just go! I can't move right now but I will come, Jon. I _will_ come!'

'But I can't leave you like this!'

Sherlock knows Jon is torn between his concern for him and his overpowering sense of duty.

'I will be fine, Jon. Now go!' he orders in a voice that brooks no argument.

Jon kneels down to press a kiss to Sherlock's forehead. 'I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so sorry to leave you', he whispers into his skin and then rises to his feet to once more to sprint towards Valhalla.

* * *

Sherlock remains crumpled on the ground, his unseeing eyes gazing up at the black sky while his mind is overrun with visions of the horrors unfolding in Valhalla.

He sees Sif, wife of Thor and Goddess of Battle, combat a frost Jötun and raise her sword to strike the fatal blow when an icicle pierces her back and pushes all the way in to breach her breast plate and protrude through her stomach. Blood sputters from her mouth as the ice giant who has skewered her from behind lifts her wounded body on his arm which ends in the icicle and shakes her off like a piece of meat. Sif crashes to the ground in an injured heap and makes a heartrending attempt to crawl away from her attacker who renews his assault and stabs her once more through her ribs, puncturing her heart this time. A bloody gurgle escapes her lips and her body stills.

Her death shoots a jolt of pain through Sherlock's spine and he weakens and falls helplessly on his back when another vision slams into him. Thor, the God of Thunder, a mighty golden-haired warrior wielding Mjölnir, his immense hammer, battles a large sea serpent. The hidden recesses of Sherlock's mind supply the serpent's identity – it is Jörmungandr, son of Loki, the Trickster God. He also instinctively knows that Loki has freed his other son, Fenrir, the colossal wolf that bays in the expansive courtyard of Valhalla.

His body convulses hard as Thor's children, demigods in their own right, are hewn to death by the ice Jötnar. His agony is exacerbated when his mind is momentarily scorched by a wall of fire that approaches from over the Western hills and memory vaults he didn't know he possessed reveal that these are Muspelheim's Eldjötnar, fire giants that glow red from the flames lapping their bodies and now descend on Valhalla.

Sherlock's skin stings as Jörmungandr writhes furiously and flays Thor with its tail. Its scales grate over the smooth marble floor of Valhalla's courtyard and it looms large over the God of Thunder, thwarting his attempts to approach Fenrir and Loki but Thor pummels the snake's thick coils with Mjölnir and it hisses in pain and slithers away. Believing he has dealt with the serpent, albeit temporarily, Thor runs towards Fenrir but Jörmungandr returns, lashing its tail around his ankle and knocking him to the ground. He turns on his back and rolls away just in time to narrowly avoid a jet of venom that shoots from the snake's cavernous mouth; the acidic poison spills on the ground and corrodes the alabaster in black holes as if burned.

Sherlock's body continues to be wrecked by inexorable waves of disturbing visions that clash with perplexing memories and sear through him.

* * *

Meanwhile, Jon has run a short distance when the earth below his feet begins to tremble with the sound of thunderous hooves and Jon whips his head around to see a herd of petrified wild horses fleeing Asgard. He changes direction slightly to run alongside the herd and when he has caught up with the slowest horse, he grabs onto its mane and, still running, launches into the air and swings himself astride the snorting beast. The stallion whinnies and bucks as it tries to shake him off but he kicks his heels into its sides and pulls on its mane, left, then right, trying to break its spirit and master the untamed animal. The brute doesn't give in, kicking and jumping hard until Jon is shaken off and thrown to the ground. The creature now stands alone, separated from its careering herd and tries to stomp the man who dared to mount it. They engage in a ferocious struggle for supremacy as Jon rolls on the ground, narrowly avoiding its trampling hooves and at one point, catches its forelegs in his hands and pushes hard. The horse totters back and, in a lightning move, Jon springs to his feet and mounts the beast again. It neighs loudly and rears in disobedience when Jon finally snaps and shouts 'Stop!'

The beast seems to recognize the authority in his voice and drops its forelegs to the ground in defeat, trotting about nervously and still fighting its rider half-heartedly while Jon keeps stroking its sides, whispering 'That's good, that's good' until it stills, its spirit finally broken and bows its head and snorts softly, waiting for his next command.

Jon strokes the subjugated creature's mane. 'Now, onwards!' he orders and his steed kicks into motion, charging towards the crumbling Valhalla.

Imminent doom hovers over Valhalla and Jon's heart is heavy with the knowledge that if Ragnarök comes to pass, Asgard will forever become the dominion of Jötunheimr to be ruled by Loki and his frost giants. Where there now are verdant hills and gushing blue rivers, there will be barren mounds and glaciers. Sunshine will be blanketed by a permanent twilight, presaging a bleak and unforgiving existence for Asgardians. And once Asgard falls, Midgard and the other six worlds will soon yield. Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life, will wither; Helheim will teem with the souls of dead gods and heroes and ice giants and fire giants will walk the land. He spurs his charger to ride faster towards Valhalla.

* * *

Sherlock sees in his mind's eye that Jon has arrived at the gates of Valhalla. Jon smoothly dismounts the running beast and charges into the fray to help Thor, his sword held high over his head when he is suddenly attacked from behind and thrown to the ground by a group of Eldjötnar. He valiantly defends himself with his sword but it is unable to penetrate their hard skin and Sherlock sees wounds appear on Jon's body as the fire giants cut at his flesh with their flaming swords.

'Jon!' an anguished cry tears out of Sherlock and he forces himself to his feet. _Jon is in trouble. Jon is in trouble. Jon is in trouble._ This one refrain floods every sentient inch of Sherlock's mind and steeling himself against the unbearable pain racking his body, he closes his eyes and turns his awareness inwards to channel his hidden energies into his centre. A few moments later, the red patterns on his body cool and change to a glowing silver and when his eyes open, they gleam with a blazing power. A mystical purple aura shines around his body; he squares his shoulders, blows out a long breath through his mouth and then races across the distance to Valhalla in a blur of violet that stops only when he is a few feet from Jon.

'Jon!' he cries, holding his right hand up. His discus, Chakra, appears around his outstretched index finger and he slings it towards Jon's assailants. The fire giants and Jon hear a thin whirring sound and turn to see the discus spinning extremely fast towards them. Chakra's jagged edge cleanly separates the heads of the fire giants in quick succession and the discus returns to Sherlock's extended finger. The Eldjötnar's shrieks rend the air and Jon watches mutely, his mouth agape as their heads roll to the floor, their eyes still wide open on their surprised faces and they disintegrate into glowing embers and die. Sherlock relaxes his index finger and Chakra disappears. Jon's eyes meet Sherlock's over the burning bodies.

'I told you I'd come', Sherlock flashes a weak grin and Jon can only smile in gratitude.

They nod at each other and throw themselves back into the melee.

* * *

In one corner of the courtyard, Sherlock finds Loki, the dark-haired Trickster God wearing a horned helmet and clothed in black, green and gold, sitting astride Fenrir, watching with a smile of satisfaction as his armies annihilate the Asgardian gods. The clashing of metal against rock catches Sherlock's attention and he turns to see Heimdallr, the Guardian of Asgard, tackle three frost giants simultaneously, swiftly hewing their icy bodies into blocks of lifeless ice when a bolt of lightning cuts his axe-wielding arm off just above the wrist. Heimdallr's severed hand falls to the ground, still clutching his weapon while blood spurts from his wound. He holds his amputated arm with his other hand and turns to see Loki pointing his Sceptre of Black Magic at him. Another bolt of white fire slams into his chest and he is thrown back with the force, crashing against a pillar. Heimdallr lies on the floor, crumpled and groaning as Loki saunters over with a derisive smirk.

'My armies and I have killed all of the Asgardian pantheon and most of Odin's family. Fenrir has swallowed Odin. It is only a matter of time before Jörmungandr rids me of my last dissenter, the great Thor. Do you really think Ragnarök could be stopped? It is inevitable, my pathetic friend. I will _rule_ your head.'

'You were always a little too overconfident, Loki', Heimdallr coughs. 'Thor fights still. Do _you_ really think a sea serpent can overpower the God of Thunder? And Odin lives. It is only a matter of time before Thor slays Jörmungandrand Odin tears his way out of Fenrir's belly and you are short two sons.'

'We both know I have more faith in my sons than you do, right this minute, in your gods', Loki laughs bitterly. His face hardens. 'But there's other business to prosecute and I tire of your company, Heimdallr. Goodbye, _old_ friend', he says, his lips curling in a sneer.

Sherlock rushes to the Guardian's aid but looks down in surprise when the ground moves away from him. An ice Jötun has grabbed Sherlock's arm from behind with its cold, hard hands and effortlessly swept him off the ground like an insignificant toy. It whips him around, squashes his arms to his side and prepares to smash him to the ground. Sherlock's forearms and hands can still move and he closes his eyes and balls his right hand into a loose fist. Asi, his sword of blue steel, appears in his hand and he thrusts its shining blade forwards, piercing the giant's groin. A resounding bellow fills the air as the giant's grip on Sherlock's arms loosens enough that he can sweep his sword right up the Jötun's body, groin to head, cleaving it in two. The icy beast staggers to the ground in two dead halves, disintegrating into ice pebbles and Sherlock adroitly lands on his feet and turns his gaze towards Heimdallr when a familiar voice cries out in exasperation.

* * *

Having been rid of the Eldjötnar by Sherlock, Jon searches the courtyard for Thor and sees that he still struggles with Jörmungandr. Thor loses his footing and stumbles a few times before regaining his balance. He tries to hold Mjölnir aloft but the serpent whips its sinuous body around him, pinning his arms to his sides and lifts his helpless, thrashing form high above the ground. The snake tightens its hold, squeezing the breath from Thor and opens its maw wide to let out a puff of green, toxic breath in his face. The fierce Viking god's eyes sting and water; he coughs hard, hacking up sputum as he tries to expel the poison that is fast spreading through his body but is soon rendered cataleptic and Mjölnir slips from his limp hand and splinters the marble tiles of the courtyard where it falls to the ground with a resounding boom.

Jon rushes to Thor's aid and begins to slash at the serpent's body with his mortal sword but his strokes fall ineffectually on its hard scales. His frustrated bellow reaches Sherlock's ears.

'Jon, catch!' Sherlock cries, holding out Asi.

'It's no use, Sherlock! Only a sword with divine powers will have any effect. Save Odin!' Jon manages to respond while dodging the serpent's lashing tail.

'Trust me!' Sherlock insists and flings Asi to Jon.

Jon hears the blade sing as the sword spins through the air and drops his own sword to catch Asi in mid-flight. Running towards the serpent, he raises Asi over his head and using the force of his powerful thighs, launches his body in the air in a long, graceful arc and descends on the serpent, bringing his arm down and slicing its body in half. In a blur of steely movement, he hacks away at the snake's body and the serpent's coils finally loosen and it collapses in a disconnected tangle of lifeless sinews, releasing the insensate Thor who falls gracelessly to the ground.

* * *

Convinced that Jon has successfully quelled the sea serpent, Sherlock turns back to Heimdallr and espies Loki looming over the injured Guardian who leans against one of the last upright pillars of the great courtyard of Valhalla. Before he can take a step, blurry red and white movement in his peripheral vision warns him of the approach of fire and ice Jötnar. _Fire and ice._ _Of course!_ He holds up his left arm and Sharanga, his bow, materializes. Running towards Heimdallr, he shouts out to the five remaining ice Jötnar, taunting them and challenging them to catch him. The gleaming leviathans lumber after him like hulking, white imbeciles. When he is a few yards from the Guardian, he stops, spins around and draws Sharanga up to shoot a fire-tipped arrow at the frost giants. The arrow splits into five flaming shafts which pierce the white titans. Loud, raucous yawps echo in the courtyard as the colossi liquefy into icy puddles which coalesce into a large pond of glacial water. Having dispensed with the ice giants thus, Sherlock sweeps his hand in the direction of the Eldjötnar and the frigid water rises into a surging wave that crashes over the screaming fire giants, dousing the flames that cover their bodies with a loud, steaming hiss and the fire giants freeze into lifeless structures of stone.

Heimdallr sees Loki's attention waver and senses he has a final chance. He raises his sword with his one good arm but Loki snaps his head back and touches his fallen foe's chest with his sceptre. Electricity crackles through the Guardian's convulsing body and he falls back limply. His wounded body hangs on weakly to the last threads of life that are rapidly snapping as his breath grows shallow and his soul prepares for the journey to Helheim to join his fallen comrades.

* * *

Meanwhile, Jon kneels over Thor's prone form, slapping the unconscious Thunder God's cheeks to rouse him. When Thor doesn't respond, he drags his heavy body to a pillar while his keen eyes scan the scene for Loki but the Trickster God has disappeared. Fenrir prowls the great courtyard, howling and snarling in turns, stepping over the lifeless bodies of Viking gods and soldiers that stripe the reddened marble floor and snorting great gusts of hot breath that toss the corpses around like dummies.

Sherlock rushes to Heimdallr's side to help him but the Guardian waves him away.

'No, leave me be. Odin must be freed. Only Odin can stop Ragnarök!' he winces as pain shoots through his injured body.

'Where _is_ Odin?!'

'Look at Fenrir's swollen belly. The wolf has swallowed Odin and can only be felled by Mjölnir when wielded by the God of Thunder. But Thor is unconscious! Alas, all is lost! Asgard will fall', Heimdallr laments.

'What about a _Demigod_ of Thunder?' Sherlock proposes uncertainly.

'And where do you suggest I find a demigod of thunder?' Heimdallr asks, his sardonic tone implying that Sherlock is mentally deficient.

'You're looking at one', Sherlock shrugs with the briefest of smiles. 'I'm not from Asgard but I _am_ a demigod of thunder.'

'Only one way to find out!' the fallen Viking gasps with a slightly wider smile. 'My time has come, stranger. Go now. Save Asgard.'

Sherlock leaves Heimdallr leaning against the pillar and runs back to Mjölnir. The mythical hammer is heavy but he still glows with the immense power he harnessed when he rushed to Jon's aid. Tightening his grip around the handle, he effortlessly hoists Mjölnir from its shallow cavern in the marble floor and swings the mighty weapon over his head, whipping up a small storm before hurling it in the direction of Fenrir. The projectile slams into the beast's forehead and it stumbles, dazed from the impact. Sherlock immediately conjures up his trident, Trishula, and charges at Fenrir, plunging the trident into the creature's gut and drawing it along its distended belly. The skies tremble with Fenrir's deafening howl of pain as the trident rips a gaping hole in its flesh and the beast crashes to the ground, dead. Its flesh is torn asunder as a pair of hands reaches out from inside its body and Odin emerges, covered in blood but otherwise uninjured. A wave of his hand down in front of his body does away with all evidence of Fenrir's innards and he is immediately restored to his shining self. He turns to Sherlock.

'Who the _fuck _are you?' Odin All-Father demands, his one good eye fixing Sherlock with an intense gaze.

'There will be time for introductions later', Sherlock growls. 'Right now, my…Jon and your son need help…'

His words trail off as a shrill metallic ringing catches their attention and they turn to see Asi spinning in the air at Loki. Unbeknownst to them, Loki had been watching the skirmish, invisible and has now materialized a few feet away, pointing his scepter at Odin's chest, his dark eyes blazing with the hate that has consumed his soul. Loki's eyes widen in surprise when, a second later, the blue steel of the divine blade is lodged in his chest. A rattling cry tears from his lips and he collapses to the ground, coughing up blood while his eyes slowly close and his body stills, allowing his black soul to escape his dying corpus and hasten towards Helheim.

Sherlock and Odin see Jon standing with his arm outstretched and know that by ending Loki, Jon has foiled Ragnarök. Sherlock waves his hand over Loki's chest and Asi vanishes. Odin surveys the carnage, his eye glistening with unshed tears. The sun slowly turns yellow and resumes its ascent across the blue heavens. Odin knows the stars will appear in the sky that night. Although Asgard's losses are great, there is hope and there is work to be done.

'Loki was born a Jötun. All his years of growing up as an Asgardian and my son ultimately mattered for naught. His heart was always frozen with malevolence', Odin says with disgust as they walk over to where Jon kneels beside Thor's inert body.

Jon's arms are bleeding; he has sustained severe wounds from the fiery swords of the Eldjötnar. His mail vest and tunic have also been ripped off and the skin on his back is burned in a few places. Sherlock's heart aches at the sight of Jon's battered body but when Jon flashes him a weary yet exultant smile that is brighter than the noonday sun, Sherlock's heart aches for a completely different reason and he wants to carry that smile with him forever. He drops to his knees next to Jon and slowly runs his hands over his wounds, his creased forehead gradually relaxing into its natural unlined state as Jon's skin is restored to golden perfection with nary a trace of the injuries inflicted on his body. Jon sees that Odin is hunched over his son and leans forward to lightly touch Sherlock's lips and smiles when he feels an answering press of flesh from Sherlock. This small intimacy is the only luxury they can permit themselves right now.

Jon drops his hand and they turn to see that Odin has closed his eye and placed his palm over Thor's chest. A few moments later, Thor's body begins to convulse in a prolonged bout of coughing as he expels the poison from his body. His eyes flutter open and take in the sight of three men looking over him, the faces of the two Asgardians creased with concern while the blue face is simply intrigued. Thor blinks and brings himself to the present.

'Father, are you alright?' he asks Odin.

'I am, thanks to this stranger here. We have suffered great losses. Our family has been decimated and their souls condemned to Helheim. I mourn them all, son. I mourn them all', Odin says, his voice faltering. He sounds utterly bereft.

'Sif? My children?'

'Everyone', Odin confirms in a low voice. 'Your brother, Baldr, your mother, Frigg. Everyone but Heimdallr, you and I. We are all that's left of Asgard's pantheon.'

Thor is silent a moment and his eyes sting as the magnitude of their loss sinks in.

'Loki?' he asks.

'Dead by Jon's hand. You were wise to make him Commander of your army. Now', Odin says, taking a deep breath through his nose and turning to Sherlock. 'Who are you? A rebel Jötun?'

'I'm Shara, from the planet Nibiru.'

'You're Shara, from the planet Nibiru', Odin repeats. He is not impressed. 'I'll say this, Shara from Nibiru. You have imagination.'

Sherlock inwardly rolls his eyes. Explaining his origins to Odin is going to be infinitely more tedious than explaining to Jon. He sighs and recounts his story, focusing on his mission. He omits to mention that the Kalki Astra is a weapon and refers to it, instead, as a historical artifact.

'I don't have time to verify your nonsense', he says, turning to Jon. 'Jon, you know this man? Do you vouch for him?'

'I do, All-Father. With my life', Jon says without hesitation.

_With my life_. A warm feeling blooms in Sherlock's heart when he hears Jon's words. _With my life_. Jon trusts him that much.

'Alright', Odin says, turning to look at Sherlock. 'I trust Jon with my life so I trust his word. You and Jon have helped avert Ragnarök. If my throne still stands and if, as you say, there is a Kalki Astra hidden in the crypt, you shall have it with my gratitude and that of my people.'

Jon helps Thor to his feet and the four men walk across the courtyard, stepping over the bodies of gods and heroes as they enter the remains of Valhalla. Pillars and walls lie smashed in piles of rubble but they make their way through the detritus to Odin's grand council chambers in the centre of Valhalla. His throne is the lone object still standing in the ruined hall.

Sherlock presses a small lever under the left armrest of the throne and the heavy marble seat gratingly moves to the left, revealing a long and narrow box concealed in the crypt in the floor. He picks up the box and places it on the throne. Jon and Odin take off their pendants, Aürium and Iriüm, and fit them in the two insets on the lid of the box. Jon exhales hard when he hears them click in place. He looks at Odin and together they turn the pendants ninety degrees to the right. The latch on the side of box snaps open. The four men gasp as the lid slowly rises and their eyes fall upon a dazzlingly white spear.

'The Kalki Astra. It's yours, Shara', Odin says and steps aside.

Sherlock stands before the box and reaches out to hold the spear. It feels cold to the touch.

'Thank you', he says to Odin. 'What will become of Valhalla?'

'We won't mourn our dead. The Gods, the Valkyries and the people of Asgard will march to Helheim to reclaim their souls and bring them back to life', Odin's voice is low and grave. Then his tone hardens. 'We will rebuild Valhalla and I will _personally_ ensure that the souls of Loki and his evil armies remain trapped in the netherworld for _eternity_.'

Sherlock is silent. Then he nods.

'Come, Jon', he calls as he turns to leave. Jon follows.

* * *

They return to Jon's home where Sherlock places the Kalki Astra on the bed. Jon runs a curious finger down the shaft of the spear while Sherlock extracts a small square device, the Graha-Vāhan, from a fold in the waistband of his trousers and places it on the spearhead.

'So this spear can kill gods', Jon says in a voice filled with wonder. 'It looks so harmless, lying like this on my bed.'

'When activated, it turns into a weapon of white fire. Only a god can activate it to prevent its misuse. Isn't it ironic that a god has decided to misuse it?' he muses.

Sherlock presses a button on the device and feeds in the coordinates for the Great Hall of Nibiru. A pair of clasps snaps around the spearhead and attaches the Graha-Vāhan to it with a click. A buzzing sound fills the quiet room as the Kalki Astra begins to vibrate at an extremely high frequency. Jon watches, astounded, as the spear begins to slowly fade from view until, a few minutes later, it disappears completely.

'The Kalki will have reached Enlil. One successful mission, three to go. I must leave for Aegyptus at the earliest!' Sherlock sounds impatient.

Jon stares at the empty bed. Last night he lay in it with Sherlock. Tonight and for all nights to come, he will lie in it alone. The sadness in his heart is crushing and he finds it hard to breathe but Sherlock doesn't seem to notice.

'I would like to wash before I leave, Jon. May I use your bath chamber?'

'Of course. It's down the corridor to the right. I'll heat some water for you', Jon mutters.

A short while later Sherlock emerges from the bath chamber, clean and dripping wet. He has once again assumed his human form and his short hair is wet and slicked back like a smooth, dark helmet. Jon's eyes walk over his beautiful pale skin as he holds out a thick cloth for Sherlock to towel himself dry.

'Thank you, Jon. There is no time to waste. Enki will be close on my heels. He only needs a day after he lands here before he can transport again to Aegyptus, which means I am just 3 days ahead of him now.'

'Of course. You must leave at once.' Jon's choked voice quivers with the sorrow of their parting. 'Will you need to take anything with you? Food? Clothing? I've brought you a larger tunic and a clean pair of trousers. You might also have use for this pouch', Jon says, handing out a small purse with a drawstring.

Sherlock pulls on the fresh clothes and his boots. He places the remaining Graha-Vāhans in the pouch and ties it around his waist.

'Thank you, Jon.'

Jon still doesn't look at him when he speaks.

'Is Aegyptus cold? You should take the fur coat, just in case it is. Dispose of it if you don't need it. I'll pack some bread for you. You need to eat. I haven't seen you eat in two days. You probably don't eat enough on Nibiru. Do you have someone who feeds you up at home? Oh, I should get you a flask for water as well. Do you know the location of the Kalki on Aegyptus? Will you be safe? You are a demigod and you have powers, I know, but there's no telling what you might face there. Don't be reckless. Please. Just- be careful.'

He knows he is blathering but the words take his mind off their impending estrangement. He busies himself in the kitchen, wrapping a couple of loaves in a piece of cloth and filling a flask with clean water. His hands shake and he slams his fist on the counter, the spike of physical pain helping to temporarily dull the desolation eating into his heart.

'Jon…Jawn…you know I have a mission to complete.'

'I understand. I do. There is no time to waste. You have a mission to complete. Yes, yes…of course. The mission…you should go', Jon mutters, still not looking at him.

'Jon…', Sherlock calls softly, grasping his arm and turning him around to face him. 'Jon. Oh, Jon. I was so alone and I owe you so much.'

'You owe me nothing, Sherlock. You really don't. You saved Odin. Asgard owes you. And _I_ owe you. These past few days have been the _best_ days of my life. You have shown me what it is to be alive. My life before you can only be described as _existing_. Since meeting you, I can say I have _lived_ and for that, I am in your debt', Jon says, still unable to meet Sherlock's eyes. His hands fidget with the vee of Sherlock's tunic over his chest.

'Jon. Look at me', Sherlock says softly, hooking a finger under Jon's chin and lifting his face. 'I _don't_ _know_ how to do this. I don't know the _right_ thing to say because I've never had to. I've lived alone all my life. I've never had a friend before you, Jon.'

Jon just looks at him, his despondent blue eyes eloquent in their unfathomable sadness.

'We walk different paths and have our own destinies to fulfill. If I could change the course of things-' Sherlock stops abruptly. Jon sees his eyes soften with aching tenderness and his stomach hurts when Sherlock brushes his golden hair off his forehead and cradles his face in his large hands. 'Words fail me, Jon!'

Sherlock presses his lips to Jon's forehead and holds them there, feeling Jon's fingers ball into fists against his chest. The two men are silent for a long moment, the air heavy with everything they want to say to each other but cannot.

'Sherlock, I -'

Jon's words are cut short by Sherlock's lips pressing into his and he groans a sigh of surrender and falls into Sherlock's kisses. They moan into each other's mouths, their breathing laboured as the sun streams in through the window. They grab each other painfully hard, overcome with a grieving need and pressing their bodies together with a desperation born of the inevitability of their permanent separation. Sherlock and Jon will never be Sherlock and Jon again. Their nascent bond must die a premature death and they must go back to being demigod on Nibiru and warrior on Nóregr.

Jon tears himself away from Sherlock and turns to look out of the window.

'This is _torture_, Sherlock! I am not that strong. Please leave. Just go!' he begs.

'Forgive me. Forgive me, please. Goodbye, Jon', Sherlock mutters, picks up the fur coat, bread and water flask and leaves.

Jon doesn't turn around when he hears the latch in the door click shut.

* * *

**Notes:** Sources for this chapter are the Wikipedia article on Ragnarök, a book on Norse mythology and my imagination. Loki's garb is based on Tom Hiddleston's character's in the Marvel movies but that is the extent of Hollywood's influence on this chapter. Just to clarify ;)


	6. Riddle me this

Chapter Summary: Meet the Sphinx.

* * *

**Riddle me this**

_Jon doesn't turn around when he hears the latch in the door click shut._

* * *

He doesn't turn around when the door flies open a few moments later. Instead he closes his eyes and exhales hard, choking with emotion when long arms wrap themselves around him, warm breath plays with the hair on his nape and soft lips press into his neck. His heart pounds in his chest. _He came back. He's here. He came back._

'Come with me', the mouth he hungers to kiss breathes into his skin.

'Sherlock…'

'Come with me, Jon', Sherlock implores him, turning him around to look at him but Jon won't meet his eyes. His arms snake around Sherlock's back, pulling him close while his head rests on his lover's shoulder.

'I don't know what Aegyptus holds, or Graecia or Italia but I know I want you with me, Jon', Sherlock murmurs into Jon's hair. 'I can't have travelled across the galaxy and met you only for us to part like this. I don't believe in coincidences. The universe is rarely so lazy. Our story cannot end here. There _has_ to be more. _I. Want. More_. Come with me. Come with me…unless, of course, you don't want to leave Asgard.'

'There is nothing for me in Asgard', Jon replies, his voice tremulous with hope while his fingers grasp Sherlock's back, tightening his embrace. 'But…I wouldn't want to get in your way.'

Sherlock hooks a finger under Jon's chin to lift his head and Jon sees his eyes glistening with need.

'How could you be in my way? I _want_ you with me.'

That was all the assurance Jon needed. 'I'll need a little time.'

'I see…you're not sure, then', Sherlock's voice and eyes drop and he tries to shuffle away from Jon's arms. 'Unfortunately, time is the one thing I don't have, Jon. If you join me, we can only return to Asgard after every Kalki Astra has been found and we'll have to return the same way. If you're not sure you want to do this, I understand. After all, you've known me less than a week. I can't expect you to trust me enough so quickly to leave your home and your life to join me on what could be a dangerous mission, one from which we may not return alive.'

Jon watches emotions flash over Sherlock's features – uncertainty, disappointment, hurt, rejection – as he rambles agitatedly.

'Stop thinking – you're unnecessarily torturing yourself', he says affectionately and kisses the tip of Sherlock's nose. 'I don't need time to _think about it_. I need fifteen minutes to wash, put on some clothes and pack a few things. Can you wait fifteen minutes?'

'I can wait fifteen minutes', Sherlock mumbles, his gritted features loosening in a smile of overwhelming relief.

'Good. That's good', Jon murmurs against Sherlock's lips and walks to the bath chamber. Sherlock follows, stopping at the door to lean against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest.

'Are you going to watch me bathe?' Jon asks, cocking an eyebrow.

'Problem? I've seen you naked and I doubt there's any part of you I haven't already touched or otherwise possessed.'

'Alright, fine', Jon gives in and undresses under Sherlock's intense gaze. He knows his every move is being studied and catalogued by his lover. Turning away from Sherlock, he makes a show of running his hands through his wet hair, allowing Sherlock's eyes to feast on the sight of his broad back fanning out at the top and narrowing down to his waist and hips. Sherlock's eyes follow the path of rivulets of water that snake over the dips and swells of his muscles and disappear into the cleft between his arse cheeks and Jon grins when he hears Sherlock's breathing hitch. When he turns around, Sherlock's gaze sweeps over his wet chest, over the soft hairs that stick in dark clumps to his skin and then arrow down his belly to a thatch of dark blond hair in which his semi-flaccid cock is nestled.

Holding Sherlock's gaze, Jon runs his hand down from his neck to his chest and over the muscles of his abdomen till he reaches his cock but stops there, instead moving his hand to the crease between his thigh and groin and curls his fingers against his upper thigh. Sherlock's mouth falls open and he has no choice but to tear his eyes from Jon's to follow the tantalizing path of his fingers and when Jon's hand stills on his thigh, Sherlock's throat jumps when he swallows, watching Jon like a starving predator would watch its prey. Satisfied that he has tormented Sherlock enough, Jon laughs softly and reaches for a cloth to dry himself but it is snatched from his hands and the next second he is wrapped in the large towel and pulled close to Sherlock's body while plush, warm lips press into his forehead.

'Jon…', Sherlock whispers into his wet skin. 'When we have found the next Kalki Astra on Aegyptus, I want you to take me. I want you to show me everything.'

'It's a promise', Jon whispers into Sherlock's neck and pulls free of his embrace.

Jon dries himself and they step into the bed chamber where Jon dresses. He packs a little food for himself in a small bag which he slings across his body. Fastening a leather belt around his waist, he slides his sword into the attached scabbard. His bow and quiver are slung diagonally across his body, forming an X over his torso.

'I'm ready', Jon says, turning to Sherlock.

'Thank you for coming with me', Sherlock murmurs against Jon's cheek, the hard press of soft lips telling Jon everything he has left unsaid.

'Stay here or go with you? It's not really a difficult choice.'

Sherlock retrieves a Graha-Vāhan from his pouch and holds it against Jon's bicep. Two clasps snap out and encircle Jon's arm. Placing another Graha-Vāhan on his own arm, he feeds in the coordinates for Aegyptus into both devices and pulls Jon into an embrace.

'We will be disoriented when we arrive but I will be with you.'

'I know', Jon says with a brilliant smile, his exhilaration tinged with the slightest bit of apprehension as he prepares to begin an adventure like no other. 'I'm ready.'

Sherlock presses a button on each Graha-Vāhan and their bodies begin to vibrate. A ringing sound pervades Jon's ears; his arms tighten around Sherlock's back and he buries his face in his tall lover's chest. Sherlock's head is lifted and his chin rests on Jon's head, holding him close as the vibrations intensify. Jon feels his physical form coming apart but there is no pain. Looking down at their bodies, he is stunned to see that they are becoming transparent. The cohesion between his molecules is diminishing and he gradually becomes an amorphous shape, faintly golden in colour, his ineffable consciousness the only force binding his corporeal particles into a single entity.

He sees his vapourous golden arms wrapped around an indistinctly man-shaped white form with a bluish tinge when their bodies ascend into the heavens. His head suddenly snaps back and they shoot through a vast tunnel of stars, the bright dots stretching out into multi-hued snaking trails of light in his vision as they fly across the heavens. Jon's head begins to spin as they barrel headfirst along a cosmic highway with walls of incandescent streaks for a seemingly interminable amount of time and his ears are filled with a low but unbearably loud drone. When he has regained a little equilibrium, he opens his eyes but immediately regrets doing so because he sees that they are actually in a celestial funnel that is progressively contracting to the size of a pea. Trepidation grips him and he is certain that this is how it will all end, that they will perish here in space, their atoms scattered like stardust but marvels once more when their ethereal bodies easily squeeze through that tiny aperture to emerge on the other side where the stellar tunnel expands into infinity. He is separated from Sherlock when he passes through the funnel and almost immediately, the portal spits out his hurtling body and he roughly slams into a hard surface. He has tumbled onto to the ground on Aegyptus.

A cloud of crackling energy surrounds him while his molecules slowly coalesce into his body and in a few seconds his consciousness is once more safely contained in his stable earthly frame as he lies gasping and coughing on the ground, hidden by tall blades of grass. It is dark on Aegyptus and his bleary eyes blink rapidly trying to make the heavens stop spiraling in his vision, the very heavens that Sherlock and he had just traversed in the space of a few seconds. Lying helpless and panting, his body tries to find its balance and his mind attempts to arrange his scrambled thoughts into some faint semblance of coherence. A few minutes crawl by agonizingly slowly while his body shakes with aftershocks. Finally, the haze in his mind is pierced by a faraway voice calling his name.

' n… … J a w n…' the voice nears as the fog in his mind dissipates and his cognitive capabilities are restored. He drags his eyes to the source of the voice and sees Sherlock leaning over him, his forehead creased and his eyes wide with concern.

'Jon! Are you alright, Jon? Say something. Are you alright?'

'Give me a…moment', Jon croaks. He coughs a few more times and then shakily sits upright, leaning forward, his hands on his knees as he grapples for functional control of his body. Finally, he looks up at Sherlock.

'I think I'm alright. Gods! That was something!'

'The first time is always the hardest. You'll get used to it.'

'Where are we?' Jon asks, still breathing in huge gulps.

'Giza, the seat of divinity on Aegyptus. The location of the Kalki Astra is known only to the Sphinx, the half-man, half-lion Guardian of the Oasis of Giza. When you're ready to move, we have to walk a few kilometres to the Oasis. That's where we'll find the Sphinx.'

Jon holds his hand out to Sherlock and is helped to his feet. He wobbles a bit and grabs onto Sherlock's arms. Sherlock holds out his water flask and Jon takes an eager drink, feeling the cool liquid irrigating his parched insides. In a few minutes, he is able to stand up straight with some difficulty.

'Let's go', he says with a weak smile.

'My brave Jon', Sherlock says approvingly, dipping his head to steal a quick kiss and they begin their trek towards the Oasis of Giza. Sherlock's mind registers that he has unthinkingly just addressed Jon as _his_. Curious. It is an unexpected development and defies logic but all Sherlock knows in the current moment is that it feels _right_.

A few steps later, Jon's head spins and he begins to lag Sherlock. Immediately, a protective arm encircles his shoulders to pull him close and he finds himself leaning against the steadfast body of his lover. Sherlock's undeclared and rather unanticipated devotion wraps itself over Jon like a blanket; he feels safe and snakes his arm around Sherlock's slender waist convinced that this moment is perfect and he never wants it to end and he wants to walk by Sherlock's side till the end of his days. His rational brain tells him he hasn't known Sherlock long enough to harbour such unrealistic thoughts, that he is a battle-hardened warrior whose trust, as Sherlock himself implied, must be earned but his emotional heart tells his brain to go to Helheim and take its rationality with it. When Sherlock's fingers squeeze his shoulder, Jon's noetic argument is trounced and his poetic heart wins decisively. Jon knows in that instant that nothing will make him feel differently about Sherlock. Ever.

Holding each other, they walk in the light of the stars and the moon towards a faint glow in the distance that steadily grows brighter as they draw closer. An hour later, they find themselves in the presence of the enormous limestone statue of the Sphinx – a lion's body with the head of a man and immense wings that rise above its shoulders in a wide arch, like two giant feathered scythes. A violet aura surrounds the Sphinx as it towers, luminous and still, over the quiet fields like a mystic beacon for travellers in search of answers or the secret Treasures of Giza. Its sightless eyes are fixed on a point far in the distance, beyond the horizon. It gazes upon the abode of Amun-Ra, King of the Gods and deity of the Sun.

'Gods! Sherlock! I don't know whether to be awed or terrified but I have never seen anything like this!'

'I haven't either', Sherlock informs him and disengages himself from Jon to address the Sphinx.

'We are travellers from afar and seek an audience with the Sphinx', Sherlock calls out. 'Show yourself, Wise One! Speak with us!'

When there is no response, he repeats his exhortation.

This time, the couchant creature of stone slowly rumbles to life, cocking a languid eye open and letting out a great yawn.

'Who dares disturb the slumber of the wise and powerful Sphinx?' it demands in a sleep-heavy voice that still manages to sound imperious.

_Great_, Sherlock thinks. _An omniscient being with an ego_.

'I am Shara, demigod of Thunder and War on Nibiru. But you knew that already, all-seeing Sphinx!' Sherlock says. He reckons that a little flattery might help expedite proceedings.

'Is that all you are, Shara of Nibiru? Are you keeping a secret from me?' the Sphinx challenges him.

'Shara is my name, Sphinx.'

'Perhaps it is a secret that is kept from yourself too', the Sphinx says enigmatically.

'I have told you the truth as it is known to me, Sphinx.'

'One day the whole truth will be revealed to you, Shara of Nibiru. Who is your companion?' the Sphinx booms, shaking itself out of its somnolence and fixing Jon with a leonine gaze.

'I am Jon Wöttson of Asgard, from the realm of Nóregr where I am Commander of the Army of Thor Odinson.'

'You both speak the truth. I like that. Oh, I have lost count of the perjurers I have had to dispatch over the past millennium! It is so tedious. They think I cannot see through their deceits, the fools', the Sphinx sighs and its hot breath gusts through the grass around Sherlock and Jon. 'Alright, you have awakened me now. This had better be important.'

'I seek the location of the Kalki Astra and was told that only you possess that knowledge', Sherlock says with feigned awe.

'The Kalki Astra. Hmmm…interesting. I have never been asked about the Kalki Astra since time began. I can, of course, direct you to it but what do I get in return?'

'What could travellers like us offer a being as magnificent as the great Sphinx?' Sherlock asks. 'We carry nothing of value. What you see on our persons is the extent of our possessions. Just some food, water, clothing and a few weapons for our safety.'

'I care naught for material objects! Do you know nothing of me? I am the Guardian of the Secret Treasures of Giza!' the Sphinx loudly proclaims, its majestic chest swelling in a visual substantiation of its grand title. 'I am plagued not by a paucity of riches but of visitors, of social contact. I want to be _entertained_! It gets so very lonely in the Oasis', the Sphinx complains, assuming an overly dramatic expression designed, but failing spectacularly, to elicit sympathy from Sherlock and Jon. 'People fear me. No one is willing to engage in conversation and amuse me. You are my first visitors in a _decade_. I have been sitting alone in this _pathetic excuse_ for an oasis! Can you imagine how dreary my existence must be? It does help that I slept through nine of those ten years.'

'What form of entertainment could we provide?' Jon asks sharply, tiring of the Sphinx's idle chatter and cutting to the chase.

'Ah! Let's play a game, shall we? I love games. I shall ask you three riddles. If you get them all right, I will reveal the location of the Kalki Astra. Answer even one riddle incorrectly and I will _eat_ you', the Sphinx says with a twisted smile and smacks its lips. 'I should have mentioned that I have not eaten in ten years. News of my terrible punishments has spread far and wide and no one dares come around here anymore. Hence my need for entertainment and sustenance', the fiend offers by way of explanation when a loud rumble from its belly underscores its hunger. 'Oh, excuse me! You see, when I sleep, I do not experience hunger. But you have awakened me and must now entertain me or feed me or both, if I have my way!' it adds gleefully.

'Give us a minute', Jon says.

'What for? You really have no other choice if you want to know where the Kalki Astra is hidden', the Sphinx snickers. 'However, it is entertaining to see you enjoy the illusion of control. Alright, you may have a minute to talk things over.'

'What do you think, Sherlock?' Jon whispers.

'The Sphinx is right. We really have no other choice. I don't see how we could overpower it and force it to reveal the location of the Kalki Astra.'

'Says the man who defeated an army of Jötnar, killed Fenrir and saved Asgard', Jon reminds him with an admiring smile.

Sherlock eyes crinkle with the warmth of Jon's words. He basks in Jon's approval but does not believe the Sphinx will be easily overcome, especially if it chooses to return to its stone form.

'Let's try to keep this bloodless. Should the worst come to the worst, we always have that option.'

Jon breathes in deeply through his nose and they look at each other and nod.

'Alright, we'll play your game', Sherlock addresses the Sphinx. 'However, I have two conditions of my own.'

'Are you are trying to bargain with me?' the Sphinx laughs, its unctuous voice clearly impressed with Sherlock's gumption.

'I am not trying. By your own admission, you have been alone in this oasis for the past ten years. You are bored and cannot be sure how long you will have to wait for another living being to come this way. The way I see it, you need us as much as we need you.'

'You are a plucky young man, are you not?' the Sphinx laughs admiringly. 'Alright, state your conditions.'

'First – ask us five riddles, not three. If we get at least three riddles right, we win. Else we lose.'

'Five riddles…alright. I agree.'

'Second – if we lose, you can kill and eat _me_, only me, but you will let Jon go.'

'Sherlock! What the _fuck_?' Jon hisses through clenched teeth.

'Not now, Jon', Sherlock hisses back through unmoving lips.

'Now why would I do that?' the Sphinx rumbles. 'Why would I give up a meal of a full grown man? The two of you would fill me up for twenty years!'

'Jon is a mere mortal and of feeble mind and body whereas I am a demigod', Sherlock says, feigning arrogance and changing his tack. 'I fear he would give you dyspepsia', he says, glancing mischievously at a seething Jon. 'It would be an insult to a being as glorious as the great Sphinx to have to dine on a weak and defective mortal.'

'I know what you're doing! Don't!' Jon growls.

'Shut up right this instant. I will not let you die like this', Sherlock growls in response.

'Hmmmm...', the Sphinx rumbles. 'Alright. You will do, Shara of Nibiru. You are either very brave or very foolish but I really do not care which. I will ask you five riddles but you must _both_ answer them alternately. If you collectively answer least three correctly, I will reveal the location of the Kalki Astra. Otherwise, I will eat you, Shara and your companion can do whatever he wishes after that.'

'Yes, yes, we get the rules. Now can we get started?' Jon snaps.

'Oh, now don't be impatient', the Sphinx entreats in a hypocritically sad voice. '_Ten years_ I have waited for this. I'm lonely, _so very_ lonely. Who knows how many decades or even centuries it might be before the next unlucky traveller shows up? You can't blame me for wanting to stretch this out as much as I can.'

'We don't have time!' Jon almost shouts. 'Just get started with your riddles!'

'Fine! Fine!' the Sphinx thunders. 'I regret agreeing to spare your life, impudent mortal! I will teach you to curb your impertinence. You, Jon Wöttson of Asgard, must answer the first riddle: _"tis better to hold me backwards to front for frontwards to back may cause ye pain. My sons and daughters always outward I sling away from my master as far as can be so to lay my foe with a sting. From my hair is my quick song sung yet I serve no master when unstrung. Who am I?"_'

Sherlock and Jon think for a minute and then turn to look at each other, their eyes shining with a mutual insight.

'I've got this', Jon says with a reassuring smile.

'I know', Sherlock says, tilting his head towards the Sphinx.

Jon turns to look at their interrogator. 'Perhaps you should reassess your claim to be all-knowing, Sphinx. Didn't you know we are archers?' Jon asks with a grin. 'The answer is "a bow".'

'You duped me, Shara of Nibiru!' the Sphinx roars at Sherlock. 'Your companion is of sound mind and body. You lied to me! We _must_ renegotiate our terms.'

'No!' Sherlock is not cowed. 'There will be no renegotiation! I only did what I had to, to protect Jon. _Your_ powers of discernment failed you and _you_ underestimated him.'

'Oh, do not get overconfident. No one has _ever_ answered all my riddles correctly. I have eaten every traveller who has had the audacity to attempt to solve my riddles. Are you ready, Shara?' the Sphinx taunts him.

'As ready as I'll ever be. Now get on with it', Sherlock snarls.

'I find your disrespect very annoying.'

'I find your delaying tactics _extremely_ annoying', Sherlock shot back.

'You are going to lose and I am going to feast on your body. Oh, I am going to enjoy tearing that healthy, succulent flesh off your bones', the Sphinx licks its lips. 'Alright. Your second riddle is this: "_There are two sisters: one gives birth to the other and she, in turn, gives birth to the first. Name the sisters."_''

A flummoxed Jon turns to Sherlock but his partner is not looking at him. He is, instead, staring at the ground, his face a picture of concentration. Jon can almost hear the gears grinding in his head when Sherlock suddenly sweeps his gaze heavenward at the faintly brightening dawn sky. _The answer is in the stars_, Sherlock thinks to himself. A fleeting smile appears on his face and he closes his eyes, considering his response one last time before he speaks.

'The answer is "Night and day"', he says.

Jon is silent. The Sphinx is silent. When Sherlock opens his eyes, he sees the Sphinx watching him with its jaws agape.

'Yes…', it says slowly, blinking in disbelief. 'That is _indeed_ the answer.'

Sherlock turns to Jon with a jubilant smile that he sees reflected in Jon's eyes. They are two steps closer to their goal.

'Let's get on with it. Third riddle', Sherlock urges the Sphinx to hurry.

'Don't get excited. The others won't be as easy. Asgardian, your third riddle is this: "_You can see nothing else – When you look in my face – I will look you in the eye – And I will never lie_. _What am I?"_'

Jon appears baffled. He thinks hard for a minute but his mind draws a blank and he looks over at Sherlock in despair.

'I don't know the answer, Sherlock. I don't!' Jon cries out. Sherlock knows that the answer is "_a_ _mirror_" so he turns to the Sphinx.

'Am I allowed to answer on Jon's behalf, Sphinx?'

'Certainly not!' the Sphinx bellows. 'That would be contravening the rules. Why have rules at all if we simply decide to flout them when it suits us?'

'It's alright, Jon. We have two more questions', Sherlock placates Jon. 'Let's move on, Sphinx. Ask me your fourth riddle.'

'Ha ha! I am going to feast on you tonight, Demigod of Thunder and War! You do look very appetizing, I must say. Rather delectable, actually. It seems such a waste to make a meal of you when I can think of a much better purpose you could serve. You are a fine specimen of your race. Had I the body of a man, I daresay I would have liked to lie with you.'

'Just get on with it', Sherlock snaps. 'You may lust after me later.'

'Were you not beautiful, I would not be so quick to forgive your disagreeable conduct. But you are beautiful, very beautiful indeed. So extraordinarily masculine and yet your features have a delicacy I have not seen in any other man', the Sphinx purrs and parts its lips in a salacious smile. 'I would like to lick you.'

'This is disgusting, Sphinx', Jon shouts, although he finds himself in complete agreement with the Sphinx's assessment of Sherlock's physical form. He cannot abide the possibility that others might covet Sherlock in that manner and his stomach churns at the thought of Sherlock with anyone else.

'Oh, come now. No need to be jealous, Asgardian. I would like to lie with you as well. You possess a rugged beauty, weathered yet youthful, your character forged on the battlefields of life and war. Your body is robust, your heart is loyal and your golden hair plays with the wind like an insouciant child. Yet your blue eyes speak of dangerous depths that no living being has been able or allowed to plumb. You hope that you will someday meet the person – I will not say woman because I suspect your proclivities tend towards the male form – whom you will allow into your soul.' The Sphinx narrows its eyes and observes Jon for a moment. 'Oh! Oh! How interesting. It appears you have met this man', it laughs.

'You really _are_ lonely, Sphinx', Sherlock says quickly. He is not pleased with the Sphinx's piercing analysis of Jon and is surprised to discover that he is resolutely unwilling to entertain the possibility of Jon with any other living being. Ever. His heart is filled with dread at the thought that Jon has found someone else. He knows he must analyse his own reactions to the Sphinx's insinuations later. Jon has turned his life upside down but he is not certain that he minds that very much.

'Hmmm…perchance your annoyance stems from the unwelcome realisation that you, Shara of Nibiru, are similarly afflicted with the emotion of jealousy where your Asgardian is concerned. Is that at all a possibility?' the Sphinx taunts Sherlock, a knowing smirk spreading on its face.

'Get. On. With. It', Sherlock hisses through clenched teeth.

'Oh, you are both so impatient. Very well, Shara, your fourth riddle is this: _"It can be said: To be gold is to be good; To be stone is to be nothing; To be glass is to be fragile; To be cold is to be cruel. What am I?"_'

It is Sherlock's turn to be baffled. He reaches back into his memory banks and sifts through his massive catalogues of information but is unable to think of a single creature or object that fits this description. His eyes wide with hopelessness, he turns to Jon with a look of finality creeping into his expression and shakes his head.

Jon understands and his shoulders fall. This time, he knows that the answer is "_the_ _heart_" but also knows that Sherlock would never think of the heart, his or anyone else's, in terms of good or stone or fragile or cold. He would only see it as an organic pump that serves a very specific purpose in the body. Their early advantage has evaporated and everything now hinges on the last question that will be posed to Jon. His heart in his mouth, Jon turns to the Sphinx.

'Fifth question, please, Sphinx.'

'What happened to your bravado, Jon Wöttson? You're being polite', the Sphinx snickers. 'I never thought I would hear you say "please". Oh, oh! I _like_ it when I win. I like it very much indeed!'

'You haven't won yet. We have one more question left', Jon reminds the Sphinx.

'Oh, alright. I will be glad to be rid of you, mortal. Your fifth and _final_ riddle is this: "_Which creature in the morning goes on four legs, at mid-day on two, and in the evening upon three, and the more legs it has, the weaker it be?"'_

Jon thinks hard. He knows Sherlock is watching him and when he turns to him, he sees his lover's face is blank. Sherlock doesn't know the answer to this riddle and neither does Jon. Their gaze turns sorrowful with the realisation that the moment approaches when they must part again and this time Sherlock will be killed. Jon cannot let that happen. He _will_ not let that happen. If he answers incorrectly, he will offer himself to the Sphinx. He has no desire to live if Sherlock is killed. But if he answers correctly, they both live. _Think-Think-Think-Think_ he urges himself. _None of the Sphinx's questions were to be interpreted literally_. _Think figuratively. Which creature in the morning goes on four legs, at mid-day on two, in the evening upon three, and the more legs it has, the weaker it be? Think-Think-Think. What if "day" in the riddle refers to life itself?_

'Jon…', Sherlock calls out.

'Wait', he barks, holding up his hand. And then his eyes widen in an epiphany.

'Oh!' Jon exclaims. 'The answer is "Man". Man — who crawls on all fours as a baby, then walks on two feet as an adult and then walks with a cane in old age.' Jon turns to the Sphinx and tilts his chin up boldly. 'If I'm wrong, the original terms of our agreement are invalidated and you can eat me as well.'

Sherlock looks at Jon with a mixture of wonder and pride. He doesn't care if Jon has answered correctly. All he knows is that he has never met anyone like Jon, brave and wise and loyal, loyal to him. He takes Jon's hand in his and they stand in silence, awaiting the Sphinx's confirmation.

'Well, I…I must say…this is most irregular. This has never happened before', the Sphinx sounds dismayed. 'That answer is…correct.'

Sherlock and Jon fall into each other's arms in a jubilant embrace and they pull back to exchange a small, chaste kiss.

'Jon. Jon. Jon. I knew I wanted you with me', Sherlock murmurs against Jon's lips. 'I didn't realize I _needed_ you with me.'

The Sphinx clears its throat. 'Yes, yes, that is all very well. I will ask you to defer this tasteless display of affection to a time when you are both alone, if you would not mind very much.'

The two men kiss once more and then pull apart, grinning and turn to the Sphinx.

'We played your game', Sherlock says. 'Now it's time to hold up your end of the bargain and tell us where the Kalki Astra is located.'

'Hold your horses, young man.'

'What for?' Jon interjects. 'We told you we don't have time and we tire of your company. I doubt it's only your punishments that keep visitors at bay. Your own _proclivities_ are enough to keep any sane person away. Now, the location, please.'

'You have chosen your companion well, Shara of Nibiru', the Sphinx says with grudging appreciation. 'He is your complement in every way – in wisdom, physique, temperament, courage and acerbic wit. He is the Sun where you are the Moon.'

Sherlock looks over at Jon, his expression revealing his full consonance with the Sphinx's words. 'Jon is everything you say, Sphinx and, as much as we've enjoyed playing your little game, Jon is also right. We need the location of the Kalki Astra _now_.'

'Alright, fine! No one wants to talk to me anymore. Oh well, the Kalki Astra will be buried below the third pyramid of Giza. Remember, the truth is not always revealed in the light. Walk nine kilometres eastwards to the Necropolis of Giza. That is where you will find the pyramids. Now leave! I need to slumber as it appears I must go hungry tonight. Farewell, Shara of Nibiru and Jon Wöttson of Asgard. This has been most entertaining.'

'Farewell, Sphinx. As you slumber and fill your mind with impure thoughts of Sherlock's body, try and remember that everything you imagine, I will actually be enjoying', Jon taunts.

'Get away from here, you bastard! I have had enough of you both', the mythical creature shouts and settles into its couchant pose, turning into stone once more to keep watch over the Oasis of Giza.

'Do you really see me as your complement?' Jon asks timorously.

Sherlock pulls him into his arms again and bumps his nose with Jon's. 'It's hard not to.'

'I might be made of stone now but I can still see you two!' the Sphinx roars. 'Leave now!'

The two men laugh and launch into an exaggeratedly wet, sloppy kiss, noisily licking tongues and lips and clacking teeth as though they want to eat each other.

'Oh, just fuck off!' the Sphinx growls in vexation and a great rumble echoes through the Oasis as it slowly turns its head away, stone scraping heavily on stone.

Jon and Sherlock laugh once more, the carefree laugh of two men who have found in each other a kindred spirit. Holding hands, they set off in the direction of the Necropolis of Giza. A half hour later, when they have gone a fair distance away from the Sphinx, Jon places his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock stops and turns to Jon but is unable to decipher his expression. He sees wonder, longing and something else altogether in Jon's eyes. He wants to analyse that last unnamable emotion but his thoughts are derailed by the soft press of Jon's lips to his and the warm breath fanning against his open mouth. He slumps when Jon's hands run through his hair and Jon's chest presses against his and all his body thrums to a single recurring beat, _JonJonJonJon_. Jon's name seems to have become a thematic cadence in his mind. They press hard against each other as each man's tongue seeks refuge in the other's mouth, seeking something and finding it in the wet and welcoming softness. Their arms loosen a little and a quiet desperation runs through their bodies as they tenderly hold each other.

'I almost lost you', Jon whispers.

'I almost lost _you_, Jon. You _cannot_ sacrifice yourself for me. You _must_ not. Promise me you won't.'

'You cannot sacrifice yourself for me, either, Sherlock. Will you promise me that?'

'No.'

'Then you understand why I cannot make that promise either. There's so much I want to say to you that I am unable to put into words.'

'But you will show me, won't you?' Sherlock asks him and Jon nods.

He kisses Sherlock once more, very briefly, before pulling away. 'We should go. When we have found the Kalki Astra I will fulfill the promise I made you in Asgard.'

They resume their journey through the tall grass in the direction of the pyramids and three hours later, they find themselves in the Giza Necropolis, gazing at magnificent, triangular structures of stone towering over the land. _Two_ magnificent, triangular structures of stone. _Two_ pyramids. So where is the _third_?

'Fuck you, Sphinx! You bastard!' Sherlock yells into the air.

'Aaah ha ha ha ha ha', they hear a low reverberating laugh across the distance.


	7. The answer lies in the stars

Chapter Notes: While all chapters bear the invisible stamp of my fantastic beta, PickyPicky, this one particularly benefited from her inquiring mind and macro view of the plot and now includes some backstory to make things hang together better. Thank you, my friend! You are supreme.

* * *

**The answer lies in the stars**

_They resume their journey through the tall grass in the direction of the pyramids and an hour later, they find themselves gazing at magnificent, triangular structures of stone towering over the Oasis of Giza. __Two__ magnificent structures of stone. __Two__ pyramids. So where is the third?_

'_Fuck you, Sphinx! You bastard!' Sherlock yells into the air._

'_Aaah ha ha ha ha ha', they hear a low reverberating laugh across the distance._

* * *

'What the fuck!' Sherlock curses. 'That fucking Sphinx answered us with a riddle. Another fucking riddle!'

'Relax, Sherlock. We'll solve this riddle together like we did the three', Jon tries to sooth his angry lover.

'You're quite the optimist, Jon. But I don't see how we will solve this. Not yet, anyway', Sherlock says and turns when a thin ray of gold falls on his arm. The rising sun peeks from behind the horizon and commences its diurnal journey across Giza's skies.

'I wonder if this is the same sun we see from Asgard.'

'It is. This is the same sun seen from Nibiru as well. The eight realms orbit this sun as part of a single planetary system.'

'How do you know so much about the universe?'

'My astral body is able to travel the galaxy. When I get bored on Nibiru, I leave my terrestrial surroundings and head for the heavens. The difference in perspective is always startling and shows me how insignificant normal life can sometimes be.'

'You fascinate me, Sherlock', Jon says, his eyes wide with awe. 'There's so much I don't know about you, about this cosmic space we inhabit.'

'I could show you', Sherlock says hopefully. 'If you would be interested, that is…'

'Have you shown anyone else?' Jon asks tersely, unable to keep the sharp edge of jealously out of his voice and relieved when Sherlock interprets it as a question of feasibility.

'I have never tried taking anyone else with me but I'm willing to try if you are.'

'I certainly want to!'

'I look forward to that. And so much more', he breathes, his voice heavy with intent. 'I now have several motivations to find the devices at the earliest and conclude this mission.'

Sherlock places a brief kiss on Jon's forehead and cheek and turns his attention back to the pyramids.

'I wonder if there are clues inside the two pyramids. We must find a way to get inside', he says, his keen eyes darting around, scanning the smoothly polished and tightly packed huge limestone blocks that form the exterior of the pyramids and abruptly stops and joins his palms under his chin. Closing his eyes, he ponders the Sphinx's clue over and over and a few minutes later, his eyes fly open with a sudden realization.

'Oh!' he exclaims but then cocks his head a little as a faint sound in the distance reaches his ears.

'What is it?' Jon asks.

'Don't you hear that? A crowd is approaching', Sherlock says and right on cue, they see a small sea of locals moving towards them. 'I must make sure we blend in with the populace. With your golden hair and my skin, white or blue, we are clearly foreign.'

'Why now? You didn't seem to care when we met the Sphinx.'

'The Sphinx would have seen through our disguises. I know he saw me as Shara although I look like a Jötun now.'

'So…why do you still use a disguise with me?' Jon asks and when his lover doesn't meet his eyes, he understands. 'You're indeed beautiful like this, Sherlock', Jon assures him, 'but the real you is _exquisite_ and _he_ is whom I want. You never need change who you are for me', Jon says and nudges Sherlock's chin with his forefinger so that he looks at Jon and sees his sincerity in his eyes.

Sherlock's face relaxes imperceptibly but Jon knows how deeply his words have allayed his lover's unexpressed qualms. He feels _accepted_ and releases his psychic hold on his disguise, allowing his body to slowly return to its natural blue state.

'I actually physically altered myself to look Asgardian but now that I don't have to, it becomes much easier for me to drop a veil of disguise over us both so that we appear to be Aegyptians to all onlookers. We will undergo no physical changes and will see each other as our true selves.'

'Will you be able to maintain this cloak for as long as we are here, in Giza?'

'If we stay close to each other, then yes.'

Jon wraps his arms around Sherlock and drops his head on his shoulder. 'That presents no hardship at all because I'm not straying any more than two metres from you', he murmurs into Sherlock's tunic, his warm breath seeping through the fabric and searing Sherlock's skin.

Sherlock tightens his arms around Jon and kisses his hair. 'The Aegyptians will be here soon, Jon', he murmurs.

'Just a little longer', Jon grouses and tightens his arms around his lover. 'I don't know when we'll be alone again. Let me have this moment', he mutters into Sherlock's chest and smiles when he feels his lover's body relax and a contented sigh ruffles his hair.

They hold each other in silence, cherishing the solidity of their bodies pressed tight and then Jon takes a step back. 'Alright', he nods.

Sherlock cradles Jon's face in his hands. 'Our minds will need to be connected so that I can project your Aegyptian facade through you. You may feel a little unsteady for a minute or two until the link stabilizes', he explains, looking into Jon's limpid blue eyes. 'Ready?'

'I'm ready.'

Sherlock gazes at Jon and presses his fingertips into his lover's temples. 'Keep your eyes on me', he instructs. Jon's eyelids flutter and his vision clouds briefly and then clears.

He feels his thoughts part for another consciousness that makes its way through his own and settles into his synapses. A dull weight pushes against his forehead, between his eyebrows, and a low hum drones in his ears. His limbs grow languid and the alien presence courses through his body soaking, it seems, into his very cells. Sherlock is inside him in a way that feels infinitely more intimate and raw than when Sherlock was fucking him. His mind was the one thing he could screen from prying eyes but with this psychic joining, his secrets are laid bare for Sherlock. He feels _possessed_, not simply in the sense of being invaded by an external force but being _owned_. By Sherlock. A minute later, Sherlock drops his hands.

Their eyes flit across each other's as they adjust to their telepathic connection, receiving glimpses of their thoughts. Sherlock's perception of Jon's thoughts is far stronger than the reverse. Vague hints of affection flash across Jon's awareness whereas Sherlock is startled by the intensity of Jon's emotions. He blinks hard, trying to quiet his own perplexed consciousness which, despite his efforts, is responding with reciprocal tenderness. This is not just friendship. This is not just intimacy. This is more, _so much more_. This is something that they cannot name. Jon feels Sherlock pull himself back from his psyche. He is still inside him but Jon knows his thoughts are somehow shielded from Sherlock now and he has lost his tenuous access to Sherlock's mind.

'All done. We now look Aegyptian', Sherlock says hoarsely and turns away from Jon. He is still discombobulated from the intensity of Jon's unspoken ardency.

'You're sure?'

'I'm sure. In any case, we are going to test it out in a few minutes.'

'I suppose we will be able to converse with them as well?'

'We conversed with the Sphinx, didn't we?'

'Yes-'

'Did you wonder how we speak the same language?'

'I did, actually but then I thought that if the Annunaki could project themselves to the seven new worlds, they probably also brought their language and culture with them. I mean…you and I speak the same tongue yet until I met you, I didn't even know these other realms existed.'

'Indeed, Jon. All learning on the seven planets was initially handed down from the local pantheon of gods, which is why your very first sacred texts were written in Sumerian, the language of the Annunaki who rule Nibiru from the oasis of Sumer. You call your language Nynorsk, here it is called Aegyptian. On Graecia, it is called Aeolic, Doric or Attic-Ionic, depending on the region. All languages have their roots in Sumerian but have evolved over time to introduce local dialects and, in some cases, even completely indigenous local languages.'

Jon's eyes are wide and his face is a picture of wonderment.

'I'm simply stating facts. There's no need to look at me as though I have discovered the secret to Life', Sherlock huffs but secretly delights in Jon's admiration.

'I'll look at you like that or any other way I choose whenever I choose', Jon laughs and pulls Sherlock's face down to kiss his lips. Sherlock relents with a weak grunt and kisses back. His powerlessness in Jon's arms is mildly perturbing.

Ten minutes later, a throng of around twenty people faces Jon and Sherlock. It appears to be a royal contingent. They are led by an imperious man seated rigidly on an ornate palanquin held aloft by means of horizontal poles which rest on the shoulders of four slaves. His head is shaven and his muscular torso is bare but he wears a _shendyt_, a pleated skirt woven from gold and purple silk threads with a thick gold border and held at his waist by a golden belt inlaid with shimmering jewels. A broad gold necklace adorns the sweep of his muscular chest and in his right hand, he holds a _Was_ sceptre, a staff with a loop at the top. He is clearly a high-ranking official in the royal hierarchy, perhaps the Pharaoh himself.

When the man holds up his left hand, the crowd immediately shuffles to a halt and kneels as one. He addresses his palanquin-bearers in the local language and they carefully lower him to the ground. In one smooth move, he rises from his seat and steps off his vehicle and onto the ground. Jon sees that the man wears leather sandals adhered to his feet by leather laces tied around his legs in a crisscross pattern from his ankles to his calves. His skin seems to be smeared with gold paint and arcane patterns are painted around his biceps with some form of black paint. He exudes overwhelming _power_, both innate and conferred.

Standing before Sherlock and Jon, however, he appears less formidable than he did on his perch.

'Identify yourselves', the man commands.

'I am Sherlock and my companion is Jon.'

'Whence do you hail?'

'We are travellers from the city of Nekhen.'

'What is your purpose here?'

'We are here on a quest.'

'Explain.'

'We seek an artifact, the Kalki Astra. It has no intrinsic value except that it is ancient. The Sphinx directed us to the third pyramid of Giza.'

'That crafty Sphinx is up to his usual games again', the man guffaws. 'How many pyramids do you see here?'

'We are aware that the Sphinx has left us with a riddle but it phrased its answer thus: _"the artifact will be buried below the third pyramid of Giza"_. This leads me to believe that it was referring to the as yet non-existent third pyramid. We must, therefore, ascertain where this third pyramid will be built.'

'Wait. Did the Sphinx just give you that answer?'

'Not at all. It asked us five riddles on condition that he would direct us to the location of the Kalki Astra if we answered at least three riddles correctly.'

'I see', the man studies Sherlock for a long moment. 'You must be rather clever to have solved the Sphinx's riddles. I am impressed.'

'You have us at a disadvantage. You know our names. May I know whom I have the honour of addressing?'

'I am Imhotep, Chief Architect, High Priest and Physician to Pharaoh Menkaure. I, too, am in search of the location of the third pyramid. Pharaoh has entrusted me with the task of preparing for the ascent of his soul to his heavenly abode beside Osiris, God of the Afterlife. I must first ascertain where Pharaoh's pyramid should lie and then supervise its construction. The locations of the Giza pyramids are preordained and if Pharaoh's pyramid is not built where intended, his safe passage through the portals between life and death is in jeopardy.'

'Wouldn't your sacred texts contain those details?'

'Regrettably, my scholars have studied our scriptures and sacred texts. They have analysed the hieroglyphs inside the two pyramids we see here, those of Pharaoh Khufu and Pharaoh Khafre but have found no indication of where Pharaoh Menkaure's pyramid should lie. We return today to continue our search for any signs we might have missed.'

Imhotep pauses and narrows his eyes. Jon can see him forming an idea.

'Sherlock, you appear to possess an inquisitive and clever intellect. Perhaps you would consider joining my priests and me in an examination of our texts. If you are able to establish the ordained location of Pharaoh's pyramid and provide definitive proof for your assertion, we will search for your Kalki Astra there and if it is found, you may have it with my gratitude. I think you will bring an outsider's perspective that we have been lacking all this time.'

After their encounter with the Sphinx, Sherlock and Jon are a little chary of taking Imhotep at his word and exchange a quick glance. Imhotep seems to sense their misgivings.

'I am not the Sphinx. I will not deceive you if you will not deceive me', he assures them in a voice that rings with sincerity.

Sherlock looks at Jon and when he nods, Sherlock speaks.

'Very well, Imhotep. Show us your sacred texts and hieroglyphs.'

'I am pleased. You will accompany me into the pyramid of Pharaoh Khufu first.'

* * *

Jon and Sherlock follow Imhotep and his coterie of five priests down a narrow stone stairway that takes them into the centre of the pyramid. Flaming torches light their way as they descend one hundred metres below ground level before the passage levels out and they find themselves standing in a small square chamber. A giant sarcophagus made of stone sits in the middle, surrounded by small animal-shaped urns. Sherlock walks up to the sarcophagus and runs his fingers over the hieroglyphs carved into the surface. The most prominent image is of a woman sitting on a throne; in one hand she holds a short staff while the other hand is stretched out over a chess table. Three attending maidens kneel at her feet. She is clearly the Queen, Pharaoh Khufu's consort and this, therefore, is the Queen's Chamber. He turns around to look for Jon and sees that he is standing by the wall apparently studying something. Sherlock hears Imhotep call him and walks over to where he and his priests are huddled over an ancient papyrus scroll.

Jon has noticed a small square hole in the wall. The slabs around the hole are devoid of any carvings or hieroglyphs. He is able to push his arm all the way inside the hole and runs his palm over the smooth insides of the shaft as he pulls his hand out. Bending his knees slightly, he looks through the hole but sees that it does not go all the way out to the surface. He turns around and walks over to where Sherlock is conferring with Imhotep and his priests and stands a little away from them. Sherlock pores over several papyrus scrolls that the priests have presented to him and they have an animated discussion that Jon is unable to comprehend. He waits patiently, holding his hands behind his back and rocking back and forth on his feet. Finally, the other men decide that they have exhausted all lines of investigation in this chamber and they proceed down another stairway and through a long and narrow vestibule to enter a much larger chamber.

Another sarcophagus lies in the middle of this chamber. Intricate hieroglyphs cover the surface; the most conspicuous of these depicts a man sitting on a throne with a _nemes_ on his head, a striped head-cloth that hangs in two large flaps behind his ears and goes down to his shoulders. Dark _kohl_ lines his eyes and he holds an impressive _Was_ sceptre in his right hand while his left hand is held out in blessing. A group of three men and three women kneels before him in supplication. Jon can tell that this was the King's Chamber, Pharaoh Khufu's chamber.

Once more, Sherlock and the priests study the hieroglyphs on the sarcophagus and walls and a different set of sacred texts while Jon wanders around the room. He finds a similar small square cavity in the wall and peers through the hole; this time, he is able to see clear to the sky. As with the Queen's Chamber, the slabs around the hollow are free of any carvings so he again runs his palm over the insides of the shaft and encounters an uneven surface close to the edge of the hole. He holds up his torch and the bright fire illuminates a carving on the left wall on the inside of the shaft – it is the image of an archer standing in the classic open pose, legs spread, right arm pulling on the bowstring while the arrow rests on the left hand holding the bow. The arrow is pointed upwards towards the sky, following the path of the shaft.

An hour later, Sherlock and the Aegyptians look up from the scrolls in disappointment. Pharaoh Khufu's pyramid has not yielded any clues. Discouraged, they return to the surface through the Queen's chamber and up the first stairwell. They blink hard as the bright sunlight momentarily blinds them. When their eyes have adjusted to the increased lighting, Imhotep speaks.

'We shall now proceed to the pyramid of Pharaoh Khafre. Perhaps we will uncover signs there.'

Three hours later they emerge from Khafre's pyramid, frustrated yet again by the dearth of new clues. They have studied the hieroglyphs and sacred texts and scrolls in the Queen's Chamber and King's Chamber, just as they had in Khufu's pyramid, yet have found no similarities or recurring themes that might link one pyramid with another. They have argued furiously over the meanings of the images and texts but every postulate Sherlock presented has been rejected by Imhotep and his priests and Sherlock has been able to refute every theory presented by the Aegyptians. Seven hours later, they agree on nothing and are no closer to finding the ordained location of the third pyramid. The fruitless labours of the day have exasperated Imhotep and his men. Sherlock also seems somewhat disillusioned. He is running out of time. If Enki has not encountered any unexpected delays, he would have reached Asgard.

Jon stays out of the debate and idly ponders his own findings in Khafre's tomb, not expecting to have discovered anything of value to Sherlock. Khafre's tomb also had two shafts in the two royal chambers. As with Khufu's pyramid, the shaft in the Queen's Chamber was blocked whereas the shaft in the King's Chamber went all the way to the surface. The slab on the wall to the left of the hole in Khafre's chamber bore the same image of an archer with the arrow pointing to the sky. Jon suspects this might have some significance but keeps his silence.

Dusk approaches and Sherlock can see that Jon is tired. Asgard's cool climate has left him ill-prepared for the sweltering heat of Giza.

'Imhotep, Jon and I would like to retire for the night. Could we resume our search at dawn tomorrow?'

'Very well. I will have my men provide food and drink for you. Will you return to my palace?'

'I would prefer to stay close to the pyramids, in case something occurs to us. We will be ready at dawn tomorrow.'

'That is acceptable', Imhotep says and begins his journey back to his palace.

'Jon, I would like to go down to the Royal Chambers once more. Will you accompany me or would you wish to stay here, in the open?'

'Where you go, I go, Sherlock. A drink of water should prepare me for whatever you have in mind.'

Sherlock hands Jon a water flask and waits until his companion has quenched his thirst. He sees that Imhotep and his priests have disappeared in the distance and pulls Jon in for a deep kiss.

'Jon. Jon…do you know how much it means to me that you stand here with me today?'

'I think I'm getting an idea', Jon smiles and kisses Sherlock again.

The two men return to the Royal Chambers in Khafre's pyramid, starting with the King's Chamber this time and Sherlock resumes his examination of the hieroglyphs and texts, finding that he is able to focus much better without the constant interruptions from Imhotep's priests. Within minutes, he is fully immersed in a study of the information that lies before him, shut off from all externalities. Jon peeks over Sherlock's shoulder, at a loss to understand any of what Sherlock is reading.

'Sherlock…', he begins, tentatively.

'Not now!' Sherlock snaps at the disruption of his analysis and Jon flinches.

'Sorry', he mumbles and retreats.

Sherlock realizes he has been brusque with Jon and looks up from his scrolls with a sigh.

'Jon', he calls but the other man doesn't turn around. 'Jawn…I'm sorry I snapped at you. What is it?'

'Nothing. I'm sure it's nothing important. Just something I wanted to show you. It's probably irrelevant', Jon says with a dismissive shrug.

'Let's not be too hasty to dismiss anything as irrelevant. What have you found?'

'Nothing really. Just a hole in the wall.'

'If it were just a hole in the wall, you wouldn't mention it. What's on your mind?'

'Well…see this hole? This leads to a shaft that runs clear through to the surface. You can see the sky through it. There was a similar hole in the wall in the Queen's Chamber but it was blocked.'

'That is very peculiar!' Sherlock says, genuinely interested in Jon's discovery.

Encouraged, Jon continues. 'Feel this slab on the inside? It bears the image of an archer.' He holds up his torch and Sherlock's eyes flit over the carving of the archer.

'And? I'm sensing a theory here', Sherlock says with an encouraging smile.

'I…uh…it's probably nothing but there was an identical shaft in the King's chamber in Khufu's pyramid and an identical image of an archer. Do you think the two might be related?'

'This is the only parallel image we have discovered so far, so I am quite certain the two shafts are related. Let me study this for a moment, please.'

'Of course', Jon says and steps aside to leave Sherlock to his thoughts. He watches Sherlock look through the shaft and closely examine the archer's image. Sherlock studies the angle of the arrow, the archer's stance, his clothing. Jon can almost see Sherlock's body vibrate with vitality; he is so present in the moment, so _alive_. When Sherlock feels he has sufficiently analysed the carving, he closes his eyes for a moment as though committing something to memory. When his eyes open, he abruptly spins around.

'We have to go to Khufu's pyramid. Now!'

'What about the Queen's Chamber?' Jon asks but Sherlock dismisses it as irrelevant to their objective. They run up to the surface and all the way to Khufu's pyramid, stopping to catch their breath only when they arrive at the second tomb. Taking a long drink of water, they quickly descend the stairway and run through the narrow vestibule to the King's Chamber once more and Sherlock immediately walks over to the shaft in the wall. He repeats his examination of the archer's image and gazes for a long moment through the shaft, studying something in the sky. Then he closes his eyes and this time Jon can tell he is accessing the information he had recorded in Khafre's pyramid. When Sherlock's eyes open, they glitter with excitement. He claps his hands together and his mouth opens in an O.

Spinning around to look at Jon, he grabs his companion's arms, pulls him into a crushing embrace and kisses him deeply, over and over and over.

'Sherl…Sher…', Jon tries to speak in vain and finally gives in to Sherlock's mouth and kisses back. They kiss for a long time and Sherlock finally tears his mouth from Jon's.

'Alright, so what was that?' Jon gasps, his head spinning from Sherlock's affectionate assault but bravely trying to regain his composure.

'A reward', Sherlock says, his face creased in a smile of contained exhilaration.

'Not that I'm complaining but what exactly have I done to deserve this wonderful reward?'

'Jon, Jon, Jon! You make the most serendipitous observations! You have led us to the location of the third pyramid!'

'Sherlock', Jon's tone is low, intended to calm both his lover and himself. 'Sherlock, you're brilliant. You are amazing. But I think the Sphinx has rubbed off on you because you now speak in riddles. Please, explain this to me because I really have no idea what you mean. I showed you a hole in the wall, _not_ the location of the third pyramid.'

Sherlock takes a deep breath and proceeds to unravel his investigation and conclusion to Jon.

'The shafts in the Kings' Chambers were created to allow their souls to ascend to their heavenly abode in the skies with Osiris, God of the Afterlife. Osiris is portrayed as an archer. On Nibiru he is known as . . Do you remember that the Sphinx said "_the truth is not always revealed in the light"_?'

'Yes, but…?'

'That _also_ was a clue. The truth would not be revealed in the light but in the _dark_. Once night has fallen. Once we are able to see the stars! Now look through the shaft.'

Jon peers through the shaft and sees three stars in a broken line – one star is a little to the left of the other two.

'What am I looking at, Sherlock?'

'_That_ is the . constellation. That is _Osiris_, the archer in the sky! The three stars you see are his belt, Jon!'

Jon knows Sherlock is not finished and holds his questions.

'Now look at the archer's hieroglyph. His arrow here is pointed at a slightly different angle from that in Khafre's pyramid. It is pointing to a specific star in the belt – the first. In Khafre's pyramid, the archer's arrow pointed to the second star in the belt. Do you see?'

'I'm beginning to. Go on', Jon urges Sherlock excitedly.

'There are three stars carved into his belt. One star is a little to the left of the other two. In Khafre's chamber, the second hole was carved deepest into the stone and painted black. The first and third holes were much shallower and not painted. Here, in Khufu's chamber, the first hole is painted black. Do you realize what this means?'

'I- if I were to guess, I would say that the third hole would represent Menkaure's pyramid and should be painted black in the image of the archer, when his tomb is constructed.'

'Exactly! I can now use mathematical and geometrical calculations to determine where Menkaure's pyramid should be built by correlating the coordinates of the first two stars in Osiris' belt with the positions of Khufu and Khafre's pyramids. You're wonderful, Jon! You are so…surprising', Sherlock's voice drops.

'I'm glad I am keeping your interest', Jon mutters shyly.

'You're doing more than that', Sherlock murmurs and kisses Jon again, smiling when Jon sighs happily against his lips. 'You know we don't have time. I have what I need but I expect to be awake all night. Would you like to rest until dawn?'

'I feel ashamed to say that I could use some sleep. I'll just lie on the floor by the wall and leave you to your madness.'

'I knew you'd understand', Sherlock says and places a tender kiss on Jon's lips.

Jon lies down on his back on the ground and folds his arm under his head, using his forearm as a pillow. Sherlock rolls out a blank papyrus scroll on the lid of the sarcophagus and launches into his manic analysis. Jon watches his lover lean over the scroll, scribbling formulae and calculations and marvels at his duality – the compact and fitful shifting of his body while focused on an intellectual assignment that is in sharp contrast to the sweeping movements of his powerful limbs while on the battlefield. He is content to watch Sherlock forever but the needs of his own enervated body are too great and he is asleep within minutes.

When Jon stirs six hours later, Sherlock is draped over him, arms and legs holding him a tight embrace while his head rests on Jon's arm. He is fast asleep; his soft and steady breaths puff against Jon's neck and Jon's heart floods with affection for his eccentric lover. He stays still, not wanting to disturb Sherlock. Turning his head, he sees a parchment has rolled off the sarcophagus and fallen on the ground; Sherlock has completed his calculations and marked the location of Menkaure's pyramid with an X on the papyrus scroll. Two hours later, they are both awake and standing in Imhotep's presence in the King's Chamber.

Jon listens, enthralled, as Sherlock explains their compelling evidence and his scientific method to Imhotep and his priests. It takes a few hours for him to answer all their questions and defend his hypothesis. The Aegyptian priests are flabbergasted and more than a little resentful that a stranger has deciphered in less than a day clues that they, as experts in their own sacred texts, have been unable to unravel after considerable scrutiny. Imhotep, however, looks extremely relieved.

'Well done, Sherlock!'

'It was Jon's keen observations that triggered this line of investigation. He is as much a part of this as I.'

'In that case, I thank you as well, Jon. Now, you must both be famished. You must partake of our meals and we shall then proceed to your coordinates right after to search for your Kalki Astra.'

The men return to the surface where they share in the meals laid out by Imhotep's attendants. Jon notices that Sherlock is moving his food around on his plate but is not eating.

'Sherlock, you must eat something', Jon urges him in a low voice.

'Digestion slows my brain.'

'You are done with brainwork for now so eat!' Jon insists sternly.

'I don't want to', Sherlock complains petulantly. 'Eating is dull.'

'It might be dull but I need you to keep up your strength.'

'What for? As you said, I'm done with my brainwork', Sherlock grumbles and rolls his eyes.

'To hold me if I should fall in this heat', Jon chuckles.

'I'll always hold you', Sherlock says with a shrug, his expression telling Jon he's being an idiot for even mentioning that. 'What else?'

Jon pauses. _I'll always hold you. I'll always hold you._ He is uncertain if that was a casual rejoinder or if he should read more into it.

'What else?' Sherlock prods.

'To appreciate and _participate_ in everything I want to do to you when we have found the Kalki Astra and are finally alone again', Jon flashes a dangerous smile at Sherlock.

Sherlock gulps to calm his fluttering stomach and eats, his eyes fixed on Jon. Jon laughs genially.

* * *

The noonday sun beats down mercilessly upon the men as they walk to the coordinates identified by Sherlock. Sherlock and Jon had abandoned their heavy Asgardian boots in the grass of the Oasis of Giza and now wear sandals provided by Imhotep. Ten slaves accompany them – four slaves hold up the corners of a large, square multi-coloured canopy on four poles, two slaves carry water, refreshments and pickaxes, spades and other implements for excavation and four slaves bear Imhotep's palanquin. Sherlock and Jon walk with Imhotep's priests under the bright canopy and Imhotep's palanquin is equipped with its own awning.

'Is it always this hot and humid in Giza?' Sherlock asks the priest walking beside him.

'During the day, it does get very hot. At night, though, it can get quite chilly. The changes in temperature can be drastic.'

'Oh, how I look forward to a chilly night', Jon gripes, wiping the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his tunic. His arm comes away damp and he takes a long drink of water.

'Are you alright, Jon?' Sherlock asks him in a low voice. He is concerned because Jon looks dangerously close to exhaustion.

'I am not accustomed to heat', he says with a weak smile.

'It should all be over soon.'

'How is the climate on Nibiru?'

'Very similar to Aegyptus, actually. Our blue skin contains a form of built-in protection from the sun's radiation which is why I am less affected.'

'We glimpse the sun so rarely in Asgard that sunshine is something to be celebrated.'

'It was a sunny day when we first met. Chilly but sunny', Sherlock says wistfully.

'Yes, but I celebrate that day for an entirely different reason', Jon says with lowered eyes and they walk the rest of the distance in silence.

Once in a while, Sherlock's hand brushes against Jon's and Jon's fingers instinctively reach out to curl around Sherlock's fingers before quickly pulling away. They resist overtly expressing their affection, not because of shame or the fear of censure but because it is something they don't wish to share with the world. Although the Aegyptian priests are oblivious to their bond, Imhotep observes their silent exchanges and glances. He notices their small innocuous touches and their tacit concern for one another. He sees how Sherlock's eyes keep darting to Jon to make sure he is alright and how his arm is at the ready to hold Jon or offer him a drink of water if he appears to be tiring. He sees how Jon's adoration for Sherlock borders on worship, how he hangs on Sherlock's every word and how he is never more than a few feet away from his companion, almost as though there is an invisible cord joining the two men. He smiles benignly at the two lovers who mistakenly believe that they are successfully disguising their devotion to each other as friendship, a devotion that couldn't be hidden from the most unobservant fool should he only choose to look.

When they arrive at the purported location, the slaves holding up the large canopy thrust the four poles hard into the yielding sand till it stands upright. They spread another large cloth on the ground and Imhotep alights from his palanquin to join Sherlock, Jon and his priests to sit under the canopy. Sherlock's calculations are precise enough to target a rectangular area three metres by two metres. Sweat drips from the slaves' bare torsos as they dig the ground in the blistering heat and three hours later, they have dug one metre into the ground but found nothing. One slave leans his spade against the wall of the pit but it slips to the ground. Annoyed, he picks it up and drives it into the ground to make it stand but the spade meets with some resistance and the slave is intrigued to hear a metallic clink. He taps that section of the ground with his implement once, twice and then a third time. Each time a distinctly metallic sound emanates from the impact. He shouts out into the air and his voice carries to the men under the canopy. Sherlock and Imhotep immediately run to the pit, peering over the edge at the tired and perspiring faces of ten slaves, nine disillusioned and one excited. Very excited.

The slave speaks rapidly in the local language, gesticulating animatedly at the spot in the ground and Imhotep issues equally enthusiastic instructions to him. The slave begins to dig around that spot and is joined by his colleagues while Imhotep turns to Sherlock.

'This man says he heard a metallic sound. He may have found you your Kalki Astra!'

Sherlock paces impatiently around the rim of the pit as the men below dig a smaller, deeper hole and fifteen minutes later, sweep away the detritus to reveal a long rectangular box.

'They have found it!' Sherlock says in an incredulous voice as the men in the pit cheer loudly.

Ropes are lowered and fastened around the box and it is hoisted up to the surface. This box has a simple latch in the front. Sherlock looks over at Jon who stands close to him, a wide, hopeful smile relaxing his sweaty features. He snaps the latch open and slowly raises the lid. A collective gasp of wonder escapes Imhotep and his priests when they lay eyes on the Kalki Astra which lies blindingly white on a cushion of red velvet.

'So, _that_ is the Kalki Astra. What does it do? It looks like a weapon.'

'It is merely an artifact designed as a spear. It possesses no destructive capabilities whatsoever.'

Imhotep scans Sherlock's face for signs of deceit but Sherlock's expression is inscrutable. Imhotep gives up and smiles.

'Very well, Sherlock, on behalf of the Pharaoh, you may have the Kalki Astra with my gratitude and that of the citizens of Giza. Pharaoh's pyramid will be built right at this spot using the plans you created to determine this exact location. His ascent to his heavenly abode is now assured.'

'I am equally grateful to you, Imhotep, for sharing your scriptures and your texts with us and for allowing us to enter your sacred crypts. Without these resources, I, too, would have been unsuccessful. It is fortunate that our objectives aligned so closely and that our joint mission has been a success.'

'It is, indeed, a success and I am in the mood to celebrate!' Imhotep exclaims jubilantly and turns to confer with his priests.

Jon takes this opportunity to speak to Sherlock. 'That was amazing, Sherlock!' Jon exclaims in a low voice brimming with admiration. '_You_ are amazing. You are brilliant and simply extraordinary.'

Never before has Sherlock received praise so a magical feeling blossoms in his chest from Jon's words. 'I could not have done this without you, Jon. You know that', he says softly. He sees Jon's eyes shine with pride and fondness and his hand darts out instinctively to wipe away a bead of sweat that sits precariously on Jon's eyebrow, threatening to drop onto his eyelid.

'We could not have done this without each other. Maybe there was something to what the Sphinx said', Jon says with a hesitant smile and all Sherlock can think is how completely captivating Jon is at that moment, how contented Jon's words in Jon's voice make him feel and how desperate he is to take Jon in his arms again and never let him go. Now that they have found the Kalki Astra, the contemplation in his brain becomes subservient to the meditation in his heart, a meditation focused on a single word – Jon.

Imhotep turns back to Sherlock and Jon with a broad smile. 'Well, Sherlock, this has been a most fruitful excursion. By way of appreciation, I invite you and Jon to my palace. The night is upon us and you both look like you could use a respite – an uninterrupted night of rest on a welcoming bed. My attendants will be on hand to help you unwind and replenish in preparation for the rest of your journey.'

'We wouldn't want to impose', Sherlock says but sees Jon looking at him hopefully. He looks exhausted and the heat has not been kind to him.

'Oh! It is no imposition at all', Imhotep says, waving his hand airily. 'On the contrary, I would welcome your presence in my home and it will be my privilege to serve as your host.'

'In that case, Jon and I gratefully accept your very kind offer. We will resume our journey tomorrow morning.'

'Wonderful! Let us make haste then!' Imhotep claps his hands in delight.

His slaves immediately kneel by his palanquin and grasp the horizontal poles while he steps onto it. Once Imhotep is seated, his slaves slowly hoist the palanquin to their shoulders. Four other slaves pull the large canopy out of the ground and roll it up. The setting sun floats like a huge orange orb suspended against an indigo background. A few stars have begun to appear against this dark backdrop and a gentle breeze whips around them, cooling their heated bodies. The slaves carry the box containing the Kalki Astra and gather their digging implements as the men walk back to Imhotep's palace with Imhotep at the forefront. Sherlock and Jon fall behind the group and Sherlock looks over at Jon, his eyes crinkling with fondness when he sees Jon's blond hair ruffled by the impish wind. He reaches out a hand to run his fingers through Jon's locks.

'Once we are in the palace and I have sent Enlil the Kalki Astra', Sherlock says in a low voice, 'I want you to make good on your promise. All of it.'

'That is what I want, too', Jon says with a laugh that belies his impatience. 'I want to hurry to the palace, tear these sweaty clothes off my body, tear you out of yours and make you mine. As many times as you'll let me', he adds with a mischievous grin that disappears when he sees the naked desire in Sherlock's eyes. 'Sherlock, oh Gods, I don't want to wait anymore. I can't.'

'Then you know how I feel', Sherlock growls and the fervency of his impassioned words sends a frisson of anticipation up Jon's spine. Their eyes light up, their bodies straighten and their steps quicken when they see Imhotep's palace appear in the distance.

When they arrive at the looming residence, they are greeted by a dozen attendants who lead them through a broad, pillared veranda into a sprawling chamber. The attendants immediately retreat to the background, standing against the wall. Jon looks around and sees beautiful figurines adorning the walls and tall plants standing along the periphery of the chamber. The only illumination is provided by flaming torches that are set in torch holders adhered to the walls and pillars; the dancing tongues of fire lend the area a golden and halcyon ambience. The air in Imhotep's home seems perfumed with a heady scent, spicy yet light enough not to assault one's olfactory senses. Imhotep's priests take their leave and Sherlock and Jon stand with the master of the palace in his beautiful home. As soon as the priests have departed, the attendants scurry closer and array themselves in single file, hands demurely folded over their stomach and heads bowed, awaiting their master's orders.

'Welcome to my home. You must be tired and may want to retire to the chambers on the upper floor right away. My attendants will see to your every need. They will bring your meals to you and make arrangements for you to bathe. Please treat my home as yours and do not hesitate to let me know if there is anything I can do to make your stay more agreeable. You are welcome to stay as long as you wish.'

'You are very kind, Imhotep', Jon says gratefully. 'We will leave at dawn tomorrow.'

'I did not want to reveal this in the presence of my priests but I owe you both my life. They were making no progress with their investigations and patience is not one of Pharaoh's strengths. I was quite certain I would be dispatched to my heavenly abode prematurely', Imhotep says with a nervous laugh. 'I thank providence that you were at the pyramid exactly when we arrived there and that you sought the same information. Now please, enjoy the comforts of my home. My servants have drawn you a bath in your chambers on the upper floor.'

Imhotep turns to his servants and snaps out orders in the local language. The servants immediately form two groups of six; the first group hurries to Jon and shepherds him up a broad staircase.

'Jon!' Sherlock calls out, watching Jon disappear behind tall, billowing curtains.

'My servants will lavish attention on your friend, Sherlock.'

'Jon-', Sherlock begins but is himself steered up the staircase by six servants. 'Jon, where are you?'

Imhotep retires to his own bed chamber with a smile, turning around to call out 'Enjoy the night, Sherlock and Jon!'

* * *

**Notes:** The deductions in this chapter are based on the Orion Correlation Theory.


	8. The answer lies in my eyes

**The answer lies in my eyes**

* * *

Summary: Decadence...(or Sherlock's first time)

Notes:: Dear PickyPicky, my awesome beta, is most considerate of Sherlock. Jon has received a shave at her instance. :)

* * *

_'Jon!' Sherlock calls out, watching Jon disappear behind tall, billowing curtains._

_'My servants will lavish attention on your friend, Sherlock.'_

_'Jon-', Sherlock begins but is himself led up the staircase by six servants. 'Jon, where are you?'_

_Imhotep retires to his own bed chamber with a smile, turning around to call out 'Enjoy the night, Sherlock and Jon!'_

* * *

Sherlock is ushered into a large bedchamber where eager hands tug at his tunic and he is forced to raise his arms for the attendants to pull it off over his head. Meanwhile, the drawstrings of his trousers are undone and they fall in a loose ruffle at his feet leaving him standing naked in the presence of six faces, three male and three female, which watch his body with great interest. Regardless of gender, the attendants are all equally fascinated by his flaccid cock that sits untroubled in a thatch of dark pubic hair. When his hands automatically cross over his groin, one of the attendants holds out a thin towel which he immediately wraps around his waist. He stares at the attendants, not knowing what to do next and they stare back until the lead attendant gestures enthusiastically towards another chamber, holding open the curtains at its entrance.

'Master, we have been instructed to bathe you and then serve you meals.'

'And what does this bathing ritual entail?' Sherlock is not convinced he wants to be subjected to some arcane cleansing process but nonetheless follows the attendant into the bath chamber.

The floor of the bath chamber is covered with smooth tiles. A large curved tub stands by one wall while numerous scented candles are arrayed against the other three walls. The attendants have a quick discussion in their local tongue and gather around Sherlock holding small vials of scented oils and the lead attendant speaks in a singsong voice that perfectly complements the tranquil ambience of the chamber.

'We will first massage your body with essential oils of your choice. These oils have healing and relaxing properties and are known to promote restful sleep. When you are ready, we will wash the oils off with a body scrub made from organic materials that will exfoliate your skin and leave you feeling clean and fresh. Does this please you, Master?'

Sherlock thinks "What the fuck. I might as well enjoy this and anyway, Jon will join me here soon" and nods. 'Very well, proceed.'

He is directed to lie down on a long bench, covered with a thick cotton sheet, in the middle of the bath chamber and acquiesces. The lead attendant holds out a vial to Sherlock's nose with both hands, his inquiring eyes asking Sherlock if he likes the aroma. Sherlock props his torso up on his elbows and takes a whiff – it is biting and sharp. He reaches back into his catalogue of scents. Cinnamon mixed with ginger. He shakes his head – No. The attendant nods and hands the vial to another man to keep aside. He holds a second vial to Sherlock's nose. Tangy and citrus – Lemon mixed with Orange oil. Sherlock shakes his head – No. The vial is kept aside and a third vial is held before Sherlock's nose. Strong, floral, woody – Lavender mixed with rosemary. Sherlock nods. The attendant smiles happily and places the vial on a plate held by a young girl. A fourth vial is presented to him. Earthy, elemental, woody – Sandalwood mixed with coconut. Sherlock nods. The attendant smiles again, wider this time, and pushes down on Sherlock's shoulders, making him lie back on the bench. Another attendant then pulls on his left shoulder and hip, indicating that he wants Sherlock to turn over onto his stomach. Once again, Sherlock complies and lies with his head turned to one side, his arms lying limp on the bench, palms upturned.

The youngest maid, a girl no more than twenty years of age, pours a few drops of the two oils into her hand and rubs her palms together, mixing the oils and spreading them over her skin. Placing her palms flat on Sherlock's shoulder blades, she begins to rub the oil slowly into his skin. His eyes slowly close as additional pairs of hands presently join hers on the small of his back, his arms and legs. He is lulled into a state between not-quite-conscious and not-quite-asleep and imagines it is Jon 's skillful hands and fingers touching him, massaging his wearied limbs hard, running up and down his back in rhythmic, circular patterns, pressing deep into the muscles lining his spine.

The oils help the slide of illusory Jon's attentive hands when the strong fingers dig into knots in his muscles and he feels his body slackening under their attentions. His shoulders fall loosely forward onto the bench, his face relaxes and his stiff back unclenches. The hypnotic feel of hands on his body coupled with the heady scents pervading the bath chamber make his breathing slow and his pulse drag and all the while his mind chants JonJonJonJon. The hands nudge him again and he turns onto his back so that his front can receive similarly lavish treatment. The whole experience is vaguely erotic and he is suddenly seized with a need to kiss Jon and possess him and be possessed by him. He senses a wave of pleasure coursing through Jon's body across their connection but- Jon is not with him! Is something or someone else giving Jon pleasure? His eyes open and he looks around irately. Where is Jon?

He sits up with a start and fixes his gaze on the lead attendant.

'Jon. Where is Jon?' he snaps.

'Master Jon is in the adjoining chamber, Master.'

'Adjoining chamber? Why is he not here?'

'Pardon me, Master. I am only following Master Imhotep's orders. We were instructed to bring you to this chamber. We did not intend to cause you any displeasure, Master.' The attendant can see that Sherlock is rather annoyed.

'No, no, it's nothing you have done. I…uh, thank you…you may leave now.'

'Do you not wish to complete your bath, Master?'

'No, thank you. I should like to be alone now.'

'Very well, Master. We are very sorry to have given you reason to be displeased.'

Sherlock can see that the attendants are terrified of having failed to carry out Imhotep's orders.

'I am not displeased. Be assured you will come to no trouble with your Master. I shall let him know that you have all been most attentive to my needs and effective in your duties. Now, please, I should like to be alone.'

The attendants bow to Sherlock in sequence and retreat from his chamber. The moment they have left, he quickly walks to his bed, lays the Kalki Astra on it and attaches a Graha-Vāhan programmed with coordinates for Nibiru. Once he has dispatched the device to Enlil, he resolutely strides out onto the balcony that connects his chamber to Jon's, walks across to Jon's side of the balcony, whips the curtains aside and storms in.

'Jon!' he calls out urgently. 'Jon! Where are you?'

'I'm in the bath chamber, Sherlock. Come join me', he hears Jon respond.

His strides lengthen as he hurries to the bath chamber. Jon is lying on his back on a bench surrounded by a bevy of attendants massaging body oils into his skin. Sherlock sniffs the air and detects lavender and fir balsam. Jon's head rests on a rolled towel and his eyes are closed. He is clearly enjoying being touched. A female attendant's hand reaches for the towel wrapped around Jon's waist to undo it.

'Stop!' Sherlock practically yells. 'What are you doing?!'

The young girl shrinks and cowers against the wall. Jon's eyes snap open and he raises his head.

'Sherlock! What's happening?'

'She was- she was going to-'

'Where were you? I was waiting for you. When did you start your massage?' Jon asks, his eyes flicking over Sherlock's slick, glistening body.

'Imhotep put us in separate chambers. I was waiting in my chamber for you!'

'Oh!'

Sherlock walks over to the attendant.

'What were you doing?' he demands in a somewhat calmer manner but still towering over the trembling girl who begins to nervously rattle off her explanations to the lead attendant in the local language.

'She begs your forgiveness, Master. She was only following orders. She was instructed to bathe our guest and meant no disrespect.'

Sherlock blinks rapidly, astonished by the unbridled intensity of his reaction. The girl appears close to tears.

'Forgive me, you have not been disrespectful. Please leave. All of you.'

The attendants bow and hasten out of the room and Sherlock paces the floor, wrapped only in his towel, his body gleaming from his own massage.

'I didn't realize we have separate chambers. Why didn't you come to me?' he asks Jon.

'I thought you were otherwise delayed. I thought Imhotep wished to speak with you and decided to start with my bath.'

Jon's eyes follow Sherlock's vacillating path across the bathroom floor, admiring his lover's physique in motion. He looks like a slender beast built for efficiency, a coiled strength apparent in his lean musculature. His steps are so light he seems to float over the ground and his hands fidget with his towel. Jon sighs, thinking of the secret treasures that are concealed by the miniscule towel that now sits provocatively low on Sherlock's hips and how he'd like to undo it with his teeth and taste Sherlock everywhere. Sherlock's fists are bunched, his jaws are clenched and he glares at the floor in great displeasure. He is clearly in a strop but Jon is too tranquil and too aroused to notice.

'I never thought I'd enjoy being pampered. All my life, I have never had anyone bathe me. I could get used to it. The oils, the scented powders they use. They have very skilled hands, these attendants.'

'Stop! Just stop talking!'

'Why, what's wrong?'

'I...I don't like it.'

'Didn't you like the massage?'

'No, no…that was fine.'

'Were the attendants not skilled?'

'No, they were fine. Everything was fine.'

'If everything was fine, I don't see what is bothering you, Sherlock!'

'I don't like anyone touching you!' Sherlock blurts out. 'I hate it!'

Oh, they both think. Sherlock stops pacing. His inadvertently revealed feelings of possessiveness are as much a surprise to him as they are to Jon. He walks over to the opposite wall facing away from Jon and pretends to study a perfectly unremarkable candle.

'Anyone?' Jon probes.

'Anyone…except me.'

'And yet you were content to allow the attendants to touch you.'

'I closed my eyes and imagined your hands were touching me', Sherlock mutters.

'I see', Jon says.

Sherlock turns around to look at him, expecting to see anger, rejection or some other expression that tells him he is a presumptuous fool who has made a mistake. He only sees an understanding smile.

'Now, you scared away my attendants before they could complete their task and looks like you scared away yours too. We are both covered in oil. How do you plan to remedy the situation?' Jon asks with mock anger which quickly relaxes into a lopsided grin.

'I, uh, I could...' Sherlock's words stumble but he reaches out to touch the knot in Jon's wet towel and lightly stroke the skin of his stomach. He keeps his eyes downcast, waiting for Jon's response.

'Yes, you could and you should', Jon encourages with a small smile and pulls Sherlock into his arms.

* * *

A soft cry escapes Sherlock's lips as he presses his mouth to Jon's and sucks on his lips and tongue like a dying man drinking from the fount of life. Jon's kisses are as desperate. He, too, has been craving the touch of Sherlock's skin, his lips and his hands. They both know how they want this night to end – Jon claiming Sherlock's body, the first man, the first person to ever own him and their bodies tremble against each other with anticipation. The slide of their slick skin is unbearably sensual and Jon's amatory instincts are ablaze. Pulling back, he sees Sherlock's pale eyes are nearly black, consumed by his pupils, and his lips are flushed and parted.

'Gods, Sherlock, I wish you could see yourself through my eyes. You are exquisite. You are perfection.'

'Take me, Jon! Take me tonight and make me yours', Sherlock pleads.

'Oh, I- I intend to, Sherlock. Gods, it's so hard to speak in full sentences with you looking at me like that', Jon laughs. 'I can't wait to have you on that huge bed, squirming under me as I claim you and you come with my name on your lips. But I don't want to rush things. I want to take it slow tonight and show you all the things I want to do with you', he whispers against Sherlock's neck, smiling when he hears his lover's breathing hitch. The long body shivers under his touch and he presses a kiss to Sherlock's collar bone.

'We should wash these oils off. Would you like me to- uh…wash you?'

'If you're going to make me wait, Jon, I'm not going to wash myself. So if you want me clean, you're going to have to do it', Sherlock giggles and kisses Jon.

Jon reaches out for the bowl with the body scrub and is about to scoop a little out when Sherlock takes it from him and holds it up to his nose. Then he holds it back and peers at it, scoops up a dollop and rubs it between his thumb and forefinger, studies the colour, the texture and sniffs it again.

'Hmm… Turmeric, seaweed powder, sea salt, coconut oil, shredded walnut shell, essences of olive, vanilla, sunflower and honey. Very exotic', he says.

'You got all that just by smelling it?'

'Yes', Sherlock affirms, surprised that Jon is surprised. 'I have catalogued two hundred and forty three different kinds of essential oils, herbal powders and concoctions thereof with medicinal and reparative qualities. It's an interest of mine.'

'Two hundred…?'

'And forty three, yes.'

Jon smiles. Sherlock never ceases to amaze him. 'So where exactly do you maintain a catalogue of these substances? In a journal on Nibiru?'

'No, here', Sherlock says, holding his index finger to his temple. 'That is my library. Everything of importance to me is recorded here.'

'Just important things or people too?'

'Until a week back, it only contained information on important things.'

'And since then?'

'I started collecting information about an important person.'

'Do I know this important person?' Jon asks with a hopeful smile.

'As well as you know yourself', Sherlock mutters and kisses Jon again. 'Oh, Jon, you-', he is cut off by Jon's tongue seeking his and gives in with a sigh. He strokes Jon's cheeks and grunts testily when his fingers encounter freshly smooth skin.

'I liked the stubble on you. I wanted to look into the eyes of my virile warrior as he fucks me. I'm not happy that you let them shave you.'

'I assure you a glabrous jawline in no way impairs the virility of your warrior', Jon murmurs playfully against Sherlock's heated lips. 'In fact, you'll thank me when you see what I have planned for you.' He chuckles when his lover shivers in anticipation and swallows the accompanying fervent moan that Sherlock breathes into his mouth.

They kiss for a long time, simply savouring the shared heat of their bodies in the unpredictably cool night. Jon tugs at their towels and lets them fall to the floor. He takes a little of the body scrub and spreads it on Sherlock's chest, sensually rubbing it in circles on his skin and gradually widening his movements until he has smeared the entire front of Sherlock's torso with the salve. He walks around to rub the paste into Sherlock's back, feeling his corded muscles move under his fingers as he works the scrub into his skin to wash away the oil. Kneeling down, he covers Sherlock's legs with the scrub, paying particular attention to his hips and arse cheeks, kneading the taut globes sensually and grinning when Sherlock purrs shamelessly. He had never imagined that Sherlock would be so reactive to tactile stimuli and is only too happy to titillate his lover by leaning forward, dipping his head and flicking his tongue over the slit of his cock. Sherlock squeals in surprised delight and looks down at Jon, panting, and runs his hands through the blond locks at his hips.

Sherlock pulls Jon up for a deep kiss and rubs a bit of the paste gently on Jon's skin. He pays attention to every part of Jon's body, lightly cleaning the oils off and when he is satisfied that Jon's skin has been thoroughly scrubbed, they step into the tub, disturbing the rose petals that float on the surface. The perfumed water splashes and a little overflows onto the tiles and they giggle.

'Imhotep is not going to like that', Sherlock says cheekily.

'I think he'll be more upset by what we're going to do on his lovely cotton sheets.'

'Is that a promise?'

'It is', Jon says, dropping a kiss to Sherlock's nose. He cups his hands to pick up the rose water and pour it over Sherlock's face and neck. He gently runs his hands over Sherlock's skin and washes away the scrub. When Sherlock is clean, he pushes Jon back to lean against the wall of the tub in order to wash him. Jon's eyelids droop with the feeling of large hands sensually rubbing against his skin which tingles from Sherlock's touch. His senses are excited and every nerve ending feels alive and crackling with electricity.

'Oh Sherlock, I don't want this night to end. I want you so much! Gods! I want you, I want you.'

Sherlock sees Jon's admission as permission for him to reveal his desires.

'Jon, take me, please. This is torture, letting me touch you like this, knowing what is to come but having to wait so long for it. You're a cruel man, Jon Wöttson. Please don't make me wait anymore. Please!' Sherlock pleads. 'I've been very patient but this is agony!'

'Let's get out of this tub', Jon rasps, his voice grating with arousal. He steps out of the tub, tosses Sherlock a towel and grabs another to pat himself dry. They hurry to the bed chamber, kissing along the way and fall on the bed in a tangle of limbs, groaning, gasping and sharing their breaths and cries and touches.

* * *

Two small oil burners are placed on either side of the bed. Each oil burner comprises a three-pronged base on which the gold-covered figures of three Aegyptian men kneel while their arms hold up a small bowl. Between the three figurines is a receptacle in which burns a small tea-light candle. Each bowl contains little lavender oil and soon a heady cloud of woody perfume diffuses through the room. Jon feels his body slowing down and unwinding and can see that Sherlock is similarly affected by the fragrant tendrils of the aromatic oil twisting through the air. The candles are the only sources of illumination in the large room and their flaming tongues flutter in an abrupt and flickering dance of seduction in the gentle breeze. Jon looks at Sherlock – his eyes are half closed and his mouth is open, his cheeks shadowed beneath his sculpted cheekbones. A storm of longing and nervousness rages in his gray eyes as he lies back on the bed.

'Please, take me. Take me now, Jon!' he implores spreading his legs unabashedly.

'Sherlock…Sherlock, this is your first time and you are so…important to me, so special and I want your first time to be special too. I want it slow, I want to touch you, taste you, feel you. I don't want us to just have sex. I want to make love to you, Sherlock!'

'Anything you want, Jon. Anything and everything. Make love to me. Make me yours', he breathes. His dark hair is strewn over the white pillow and the patterns on his body glow a soft silver. When Jon sees the hunger in pale irises that watch him through thick lashes, the lust kindling in his groin bursts into flames of passion that scorch through his body.

'Sherlock, gods, you are so beautiful. So beautiful', he sighs. "I want to hold you and never let you go. Don't leave me",he thinks but makes do with kissing Sherlock and hopes his lips tell him everything he cannot.

Jon's mouth stays fused to his lover's for a long time as they enjoy the slide of soft flesh and the wet caresses of each other's tongues, mapping out the landscape of the other's mouth, tasting and licking and sucking. When Jon finally pulls his mouth away, Sherlock whimpers in protest but then forgets to breathe when Jon's lips trail down his neck. He gives himself over to the sensations Jon is dragging out of his body. Every piece of skin touched by Jon burns with a passion he has only felt once before, on that first night with Jon. His skin tingles, it sears, it sings for Jon and he lies helplessly on his back as Jon reawakens parts of him that had lain dormant all his life.

This time is different from the first. They have touched each other's bodies before and have come to this bed voluntarily, with full awareness of what is to ensue. This is Jon finding his way around Sherlock's body again but taking his time doing it, studying every bit of skin and muscle and bone and recording every sensation he triggers in Sherlock with his licks and kisses and nips. This is Sherlock willingly offering himself to Jon, not terrified like he was the first time; he trusts Jon and is curious to discover everything his body is capable of experiencing.

Soft touches awaken Sherlock's nether regions and then, without warning, his cock is inserted in a wet cavern, surrounded by the smooth, hot flesh of Jon's mouth that lovingly pulls on his shaft in long, lazy sucks. When Jon's tongue flicks out to tease his tip, Sherlock's back arches off the bed and he bites his hand to stop from shouting. Jon relentlessly worships his cock while his fingers reach out to cup Sherlock's balls and gently move them around in their loose sac. Sherlock is so focused on the sensations radiating through his body from his cock that he doesn't realize that Jon's fingers have crept below and reached into his cleft. His own thighs have instinctively spread to allow Jon more access to his most private part and when he feels a blunt digit softly press against his hole, his eyes fly open and he gasps 'Jon!'

Jon pulls off his cock and lifts his head. 'Turn over, Sherlock.'

'Jon!'

'Please, Sherlock. I want everything. Turn over', Jon doesn't care if he's begging or commanding because Sherlock complies.

He turns over to lie on his stomach and buries his face in his arms on the pillow, breathing hard when Jon straddles his hips and lowers himself gently onto the backs of his thighs. Their skin seems to have melded where Jon's cheeks touch Sherlock's thighs and Jon's warmth seeps into Sherlock's skin and spreads through his body.

'Alright?' Jon asks when he feels Sherlock tremble and his lover just nods mutely against his arm. Jon places his palms flat on Sherlock's shoulder blades and slides them down his back and along his sides to his waist, caressing the smooth blue skin stretched tight over a svelte body and runs his hands back up and then down again and up and down. He traces the patterns on Sherlock's skin, ghosting his fingers over the delicate lines and feeling Sherlock's skin quiver at his touch. Very slowly he increases the pressure and begins a circular motion, pushing into Sherlock's muscles and feeling him loosen under his touch. He continues this pattern of touch but each time his hands slide lower until they reach down to his arse cheeks. Sherlock gasps at the first touch and stiffens. Jon bows forwards and runs his nose up the valley of muscle that has formed along Sherlock's taut spine, breathing the heady scent of sandalwood mixed with Sherlock's own unique and intoxicating musk. He ghosts his lips over Sherlock's back all the way to the nape of his neck, pushes his long tresses aside and presses a kiss into the soft skin behind Sherlock's ear.

'I want to kiss you', Jon husks and Sherlock obligingly turns and lifts his head to offer his lips to Jon.

'Not on your mouth.'

'I don't under- oh!'

'Yes. You understand.'

Sherlock's head drops back onto his arm and Jon feels his body trembling.

'Spread your legs, Sherlock', Jon commands in the voice he uses to bark orders to his soldiers, and Sherlock submissively moves his thighs apart with a ragged moan.

He closes his eyes to shut off all stimuli other than touch – the touch of Jon's lips along his spine and over the small of his back, at the top of his cleft. Strong hands pull his cheeks apart, fingers digging into the supple flesh and he shivers when Jon blows cool air over the sensitive skin between his buttocks. The gap is suddenly filled by Jon's face pressing into his cleft and his nose running along his skin to breathe in his scent, up and down and up and down again. Then Jon changes direction and moves his face laterally, his smooth skin softly sliding against the insides of Sherlock's cheeks, skin against skin, heat against heat. Jon's lips press against the puckered hole and Sherlock's thigh shake with pleasure when those lips open and a wet tongue darts out to lick him. Jon licks him in this most private of parts. He tastes him, he laps moistly at the clean flesh that shivers wherever he kisses it or licks it or sucks on it.

Sherlock is extremely responsive and cries out his torment and mortification into the plump pillows when Jon begins to thrust his tongue into him, pushing past the tight rim of muscle, breaching Sherlock and claiming his virgin body with his mouth. Sherlock is helplessly played with, toyed with and tantalized by Jon's hard, purposeful tongue until there is not an inch of his cleft that Jon hasn't claimed. He sobs into his pillow feeling weak, his body racked with bliss. Jon has not yet fucked him, not with his fingers, not with his cock and yet his tongue has possessed him and Sherlock already feels owned. His flesh is owned by Jon. His body belongs to Jon now and forever.

'I will fuck you now, Sherlock', Jon growls, pulling his face out of Sherlock's arse.

'Oh gods, yes!' Sherlock chokes out.

'I'm going to open you first', Jon says. He has already sat up and is dipping his fingers into the bowl of lavender oil in the oil diffuser. The warm fluid runs down his fingers and he rubs them together to spread it evenly over his digits.

'Sherlock…', he calls.

'Unhhh…', is all his lover can manage by way of a muffled response.

'Kiss me', he murmurs, dropping his head next to Sherlock's on the pillow and Sherlock blindly opens his mouth to receive Jon's invading tongue and they kiss and kiss wetly, sloppily and Sherlock tastes himself in Jon's saliva and whimpers with the carnality of it all. He has been stripped of all control over his mind and his body and lies on that bed, a slave willingly offering himself to be ravaged by Jon. He moans brokenly like a man bereft when Jon's mouth leaves his.

'Sherlock, I'm going to enter you with my fingers now but you must tell me if I'm hurting you. Alright?'

'Hnhh…please', Sherlock pleads, turning his face to bury it in his pillow. He pushes his hips up so that his arse sticks out in clear invitation.

'You can drive a sane man mad, Sherlock!' Jon gasps, his heart thundering in his chest.

'I only want to drive you mad, Jon. Fuck me, pleas- Ah! Unh! Unh! Unh!' he moans as Jon's slick finger slips into his hole.

Jon gently pushes one finger into Sherlock in increments, slowly, very slowly, careful not to hurt his lover and pulls it out till only the tip is inside and then pushes it in again. When he feels Sherlock's hole accept his finger with ease, he adds another and repeats his ministrations. A few minutes later, he has added a third finger, all the time crooning against Sherlock's back and ensuring his lover is not uncomfortable. He gently scissors his fingers inside Sherlock and when one finger inadvertently brushes against his prostate, Sherlock's back stiffens and arches and his cry rings out in the quiet room. Jon immediately moves his finger away and Sherlock falls back onto his pillow.

'Take me now, Jon! Please! Please! I can't wait anymore.'

Jon presses his lips to Sherlock's back and carefully pulls his fingers out. He takes a little more oil from the lamp and slicks up his cock. Sherlock tries to turn over onto his back.

'It will be easier for you like this, Sherlock.'

'No! I want to see you. I must see you when you're inside me, Jon!'

'Oh gods! I want to see you too! Turn around, my- Sherlock', he catches himself and prays that Sherlock doesn't notice.

The gorgeous blue alien lies below Jon and spreads his thighs, inviting his lover to deflower him. Jon settles between Sherlock's legs and pushes his thighs back until his hole is visible to him. The loosened opening is slick with lavender oil and clenches at nothing. Jon licks his lips and holds his cock at Sherlock's entrance. He grabs Sherlock's hair, roughly pulls his head back and plants his open mouth on the long column of his neck.

'Tell me you want this. That you want me.'

'I want this and I want you to give it to me. I only want you, Jon', Sherlock's fevered voice breathes. He is undone by the raw authority in Jon's rasp and his cock jerks in response to the vibrations of Jon's growl against his skin.

Jon pushes in just enough so that his swollen tip breaches Sherlock's rim and pops inside. His cock is quite a bit thicker than his three fingers and Sherlock winces at the unexpected stretch and grasps Jon's arms, his fingers digging hard into his flesh as he fights the pain.

'Jon!' he cries out. His eyes are wide with alarm and he clings to Jon desperately, his torso rising from the bed to press into Jon's chest. Jon leans down and gently pushes Sherlock back onto the bed and drops feathery kisses over his face.

'I've got you. I've got you. I won't hurt you, Sherlock and I won't move until you ask me to.'

Sherlock mutely nods his head but his forehead and eyes are creased and his breath comes in pained gasps. His body tries to fight the startling intrusion and he bites his lips, waiting for his hole to open around Jon.

'It gets easier. I promise. Just relax for me. Let yourself relax. Shhh…I've got you. I've got you. I'm going to stay still until you can take me in without pain. Alright? And if you can't, that's alright. It's fine. I'll just pull out slowly and we'll stop because the last thing I want is to hurt you in any way. I won't ever hurt you.'

Sherlock nods gratefully and pulls Jon's face down for a kiss. They kiss for a long time and Jon hums soothingly against his lips, feeling his lover's arms relax around his shoulders and his hole relax around his cock. A little while later, Sherlock's hips move and he presses up over Jon's cock, taking more of it inside him, then a little more and a little more. Jon lets Sherlock control the pace of penetration until he has taken him all the way in and Jon is fully seated inside his beautiful blue lover. They look at each other, not speaking, aware that this is a crucial moment in both their lives. Jon still doesn't move. They kiss and kiss again and pull back to search each other's eyes in silence and then Sherlock blinks. He sees Jon's gaze filled with wonder, tenderness, affection and something else. He sees sadness.

Jon breaks their visual connection to drop soft kisses down Sherlock's neck and lick the length of his collar bone. He drags his lips down Sherlock's chest, tracking the outline of the pectoral muscles with his lips and bringing them to rest on one nipple. The bud instantly hardens under his wet caresses and draws a raw moan from Sherlock by flicking his tongue repeatedly over the fleshy pebble. Sherlock's hips begin to move and quicken their pace against Jon but he places a stabilizing hand over Sherlock's under-belly and pushes him down.

'Easy…easy. We don't have to hurry. I will take you now, Sherlock.'

'Yessss…please, please', Sherlock whimpers.

Jon presses his mouth to Sherlock's and begins to rock his hips, gently plunging into Sherlock and pulling back but not all the way and then pushing back in. Over and over, carefully, languidly. He swallows Sherlock's soft cries of pleasure, holding his bucking hips down until Sherlock understands that Jon will now set the pace and gives himself over to his warrior. The wet heat surrounding Jon's girth is slick with oil and he moves smoothly in and out of those fluttering walls that clamp around him and release and clamp again, the pulsating grip driving him senseless with desire. He pulls his face away from Sherlock. He is close but doesn't want it to be over just yet.

'Open your eyes, Sherlock. Look at me', he murmurs, his hips still lazily spearing into Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes open and Jon drowns in a sea of icy gray.

'Sherlock… Sherlock…Sherlock…', he chants, dropping kisses on his lover's face.

'Now, Jon, please!' Sherlock begs and Jon begins to snap his hips hard, violently claiming Sherlock as his. Supporting his body on one forearm, he grasps Sherlock's cock with the other hand and begins to pump it hard, his oil-slicked palm sliding easily over the thin skin and thick flesh. He pumps Sherlock in rhythm with his hips and a few seconds later, comes with a loud cry, spilling his come into Sherlock's passage in slow, convulsing pulses. His hand stills on Sherlock's cock while his hips buck and he rides out his own orgasm. When, after a few long minutes, his cock gets too sensitive, he pulls out and his semi-flaccid shaft falls heavily onto the sheets. His come dribbles in a frothy stream out of Sherlock onto the sheets. He is transfixed by the sight of the dusky hole clenching a few times, expelling more and more of his come and he marvels at how much Sherlock has wrung out of him. When the white stream dwindles, he pushes back into Sherlock to plug him up again and looks into his lover's eyes.

Sherlock's pupils are blown and he has bitten his lips until they are red and swollen. Jon kisses him and murmurs 'You're beautiful, so beautiful, so perfect…' against his lips. He tightens his fingers around Sherlock's cock and resumes stroking it, this time twisting his hand on the way up and rubbing over the mushroom top before drawing his hand down again to the root. Jon bows his body to suck on Sherlock's nipples, his hand still working on his cock, alternating hard and fast tugs with soft and slow pulls, flicking his thumb over Sherlock's slit and his tongue over his nipple in concert, the twin stimulations exciting Sherlock so much that he begins to mewl loudly and unabashedly. Jon feels his cock twitch in his hand and knows he's close. Sherlock teeters on the edge of orgasm, desperate to find his completion.

'Come for me, Sherlock. Call my name and come for me…' he breathes, hovering over his lover.

Sherlock's eyelids droop but he holds Jon's gaze.

' n', he sobs.

Jon bows his body and opens his mouth against his shoulder. 'Now!' he commands and sinks his teeth into Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock cries out and convulses violently, a powerful stream of ejaculate spurting from his flushed cock and landing on his collar bone. His eyes roll back into his head and his hips buck, pushing out gobs of white fluid which land on his chest, his belly, Jon's neck and run over Jon's fingers. The patterns on his body glow brightly and his legs tighten around Jon's hips while he empties himself, physically and psychically. His eyes remain closed for a long time and Jon just holds him through his climax. He knows that Sherlock is alone with himself in this moment and waits for him to return to the present. When Sherlock's eyes open and he looks at Jon, he sees gratitude and adoration in the large blue orbs. His spirit is owned by Jon. His spirit belongs to Jon now and forever.

'Thank you', Sherlock whispers and they fall into a desperate kiss, rubbing against each other, spreading Sherlock's semen over their bodies, Jon's cock still embedded in Sherlock's arse. They kiss and kiss and kiss until they each hear what the other man is saying without speaking. Sweat mixes with oil, come and saliva in a messy concoction of bodily fluids but they continue exchanging kiss for kiss and touch for touch, swallowing each other's breaths and sounds, knowing that there is nowhere else they would want to be. Not now, not ever. Jon's cock finally falls out of Sherlock and they take it as a definitive indication that their coupling has, in fact, concluded and pull apart with shy smiles.

* * *

'Was that- uh, did I hurt you?' Jon asks.

'No', Sherlock says, looking down at his flat belly smeared with his own come. He feels sticky between his arse cheeks and wrinkles his nose. 'This is messy. Is it always this messy?'

'If it is this good, then yes, it's this messy', Jon giggles. 'Nevertheless, we should get cleaned up or this can dry up quite quickly. I shudder to think of Imhotep's reaction to this tomorrow morning.'

'He did say to let him know of ways he could make our stay more agreeable. I think this was agreeable, don't you?'

Jon kisses Sherlock and murmurs 'Exceptionally so.'

He rises from the bed to step into the bath chamber and returns with a moistened towel. Sherlock luxuriates in the feeling of Jon gently rubbing the towel over his front and between his arse cheeks, carefully wiping away all remnants of his come and Jon's, and a warmth spreads through him. Once more, in Jon's hands, he feels cared for and cherished. When Jon returns, he has washed his hands and cleaned himself up but frowns at the sheets.

'We can't sleep in this mess', he laughs and pulls the bed cover off from one side. Sherlock lazily rolls over the bunched sheet to the exposed mattress; Jon pulls the whole sheet off from the other side and drops it on the floor. 'I should get the clean sheet from your chamber', he mutters but is grabbed by long arms and his lover moans 'No! No, no, don't go! We can get the sheet tomorrow morning. Not now. Not now. I need- stay with me, please.'

'Alright, tomorrow morning then', Jon says with a soft smile. He lies down on the bare mattress beside Sherlock and is immediately enveloped in a tender cage of blue limbs. Soft kisses fall on his face and eyebrows and cheeks and lips and he sighs, completely content and satiated.

'No one has ever looked at me like you do', Sherlock murmurs into soft golden hair.

'Like I want to fuck your brains out?'

'That certainly', Sherlock laughs, 'but also…like I matter', he adds hesitantly. 'Matter to you.'

'That's because you do matter to me. You are the person who matters most to me in my life', Jon admits, a simple statement of fact that they both know to be the absolute truth.

They kiss for a long time and slowly sink into a comfortable silence, awaiting the call of slumber. Jon stays awake, thinking. When Sherlock turns to his side, facing away from him, Jon waits for his lover's soft breathing to steady and when he is certain that he is asleep, he leans forwards and presses his lips to Sherlock's nape and whispers three words into his hair, so soft it could have just been his breath rustling Sherlock's tresses. Three words that he says to Sherlock with every fibre of his being but cannot vocalize. Three words that place a universe in Sherlock's hands – the universe that is Jon's heart. He slips his arm around Sherlock's waist and soon sinks into a deep slumber, his face buried in the smooth skin between Sherlock's shoulder blades.

On the other side, Sherlock catches glimpses of the night sky through the fluttering balcony curtains. His fingers close over Jon's and when he feels his Viking's breathing even out against his skin, his lips move soundlessly and he says three words of his own. He gives his words to Jon. He gives himself to Jon. His Jon.


	9. Rescue me

Chapter summary: An adventure in Sparta...

Notes: My dear PickyPicky's penchant for apposite, succinct descriptions, not least in the hugely important domain of smut, resulted in the little bovine reference below. ;) But I jest. My awesome beta is crucial to this story and my writing in general.

* * *

**Rescue Me**

'Jon, wake up. Jon, Jawn, wake up', Sherlock urges his lover, gently touching his shoulder.

'Unnhhrrr, just a little longer', Jon mumbles into his pillow.

'Jon, we must leave for Graecia. Time is running out. If Enki hasn't been delayed, he will arrive in Aegyptus today. Please, Jon, wake up!' Sherlock urges.

'Arrhhhh! Alright!' Jon grumbles and pushes himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, bending over and resting his elbows on his knees, trying to clear the fog in his brain.

A fresh scent wafts up from behind him and he turns to see that Sherlock has bathed and dressed. He looks like he did on the day they first met – arrogant, beautiful and completely in control and Jon feels a stab of pride as he recalls the previous night when Sherlock lay under him, naked in body and soul, spread-eagled and vulnerable as he shook uncontrollably and offered himself for Jon's possession. He pushes himself off the bed and shuffles into the bath chamber. Ten minutes later, clean and bathed and dressed, he stands in the middle of their chamber, takes Sherlock's hand in his and raises it to his lips.

'I'm ready', he murmurs against long, artistic fingers.

'I'm not, not yet', Sherlock winks at Jon's quizzical expression and takes a step forward to close the distance between them and before Jon can ask his question, his mouth is covered by Sherlock's questing lips and tongue and he succumbs once more to the debilitating pleasure of being in Sherlock's arms. He runs his hands down Sherlock's back and caresses the tight swell of his arse, moving his hands in small circles over his cheeks; he swallows the small whimpers of pleasure Sherlock makes when his skin tingles from the soft abrasion of the rough fabric of his trousers gliding over his smooth flesh. When Jon's fingers walk their way into his cleft, Sherlock clenches reflexively, trying to lock Jon's fingers inside, the sharp twinge in his well-used hole bringing vivid memories of the previous night flooding back into his sex-addled brain. Feeling his focus slipping, he moans and tears his mouth off Jon's.

'We should stop, Jon,' Sherlock breathes, 'or I never will. Let's go down and take Imhotep's leave.'

Jon clears his throat and tries to tidy room, spreading the crumpled sheet over the mattress and grimacing when the rude, telltale stain in the middle of the bed stares back at him.

'Fuck', he curses and throws a pillow over the stain, hoping it draws attention away from the clear evidence of their passionate consummation of the previous night. 'We should get the sheet from your chamber and throw it over the bed.'

He is about to step onto the balcony when they hear a voice outside their chamber calling their names. The curtains part and Imhotep steps in while his attendants stand outside respectfully.

'Ah! The sun has risen and so have my guests', Imhotep grins, his keen eyes surveying the room and quickly surmising the enthusiastic horizontal activities of the past night. 'It seems you have had a most energetic respite', his lips widen into a grin and he cocks an eyebrow at the ruffled bed.

'Yes, we, uh, the arrangements were very comfortable and we thank you sincerely for your hospitality, Imhotep', Jon mutters, his cheeks flushing a bright pink.

'Apologies for the state of the chamber', Sherlock bravely addresses Imhotep's insinuation head on, nonetheless turning commensurately rubicund.

'Please, no need to apologise. Although I had my suspicions, I did not want to presume that your companionship was anything more than friendship and arrange for you be in the same bed chamber. I knew that if it were, you would rectify the situation and I am happy to be proven right.'

Sherlock shoots Jon a sidelong glance while his teeth shyly worry the inside of his cheek. Jon reaches out a hand to still Sherlock's nervous fingers which immediately curl into his and squeeze his hand.

'I am convinced that like a river finds its way to the ocean, no matter how tortured or tortuous its path, you will always find your way to each other.'

Sherlock nods, more to himself than to Imhotep. 'Thank you once again. You have been a most accommodating host. We must leave now as our mission has not ended.'

'Then you must hasten. My servants will pack some food and water for your journey. I wish you well, Sherlock and Jon. My home is always open to you and you are welcome to return whenever you wish and stay as long as you wish.'

* * *

A short while later, Sherlock and Jon are once more walking over the plains of Giza while Imhotep's palace disappears in the distance behind them. Sherlock stops to kiss Jon. He places a Graha-Vāhan around his arm and one over Jon's.

'The Kalki Astra on Graecia is located in the city of Sparta. It is guarded by Ares, the Graecian God of War, in his temple. Once we have acquired it, there is one last device to retrieve from Italia in the Temple of Jupiter in the capital city of Roma. We can then return to Asgard.'

'That's great. That's wonderful', Jon nods apathetically; his heart deflates at the thought of returning to Asgard. Will there be a Sherlock and Jon after that? Can there be a Sherlock and Jon ever? He has been living in a fool's paradise these past few days and the rather certain future is not something he wants to ponder right now because it doesn't include his demigod of Thunder and War. Sherlock sees his Viking's face cloud but knows exactly how to cheer him up.

'So you and I have already had a lot of adventures, seen a lot of action', Sherlock looks into Jon's eyes.

'We have', Jon agrees, his eyes lighting up as the gloom clears a little.

'Want to see some more?'

'Gods, yes!' Jon gasps excitedly.

Sherlock flashes him a lopsided grin and pulls him into an embrace, activates the Graha-Vāhans and once again they set off on an extremely brief cosmic ride across an extremely long cosmic distance and arrive in the city of Sparta.

* * *

Sherlock's coordinates are accurate up to a hundred and fifty metres and a quick trek brings them to the Temple of Ares. The Temple, surprisingly, is empty. The statue of Ares lies demolished in a pile of rubble on the floor. Ares himself is nowhere to be seen. An irregular beat of metallic clinks can be heard from behind an impressively large and ornate wooden door in the wall. Running to the door, they push it open and behold a tall and imposing warrior chained to the wall of the inner chamber. His sword, shield and spear lie on the floor at his feet but he is dressed in battle gear and still wears his helmet.

'Ares?'

'I am he. Who are you?' the Graecian God of War demands.

'I am Shara, Demigod of Thunder and War on the planet Nibiru and this is Jon Wöttson, commander of the army of Thor Odinson on the planet of Nóregr', he says as Jon runs up to Ares trying to cut his chains down with his sword.

'You're a long way from home', Ares tells Sherlock and then addresses Jon, who is grunting in frustration. 'You're wasting your time. Mortal weapons won't work on Hephaestus' chains and nor will any divine weapon forged on Graecia.'

Sherlock materializes Asi and the blue blade easily slices through the chains which clatter to the floor in a tangle of golden links, freeing Ares. 'Asi was forged on Nibiru', he shrugs.

'I thank you, Shara. I would have liked to show my gratitude more explicitly but must, I'm afraid, hasten to the Underworld.'

'Might we be of assistance?' Sherlock asks.

'Hades has abducted my betrothed, Aphrodite. He holds her captive in the Underworld where he intends to marry her against her wishes. Unfortunately, only divinity can enter the Underworld alive and although Jon may not join me, I would gladly accept assistance from you, Shara and would be pleased to offer you any form of recompense you desire when I return.'

'I shall accompany you to the Underworld, Ares. I seek an artifact that is concealed in your temple. It is called the Kalki Astra and I will gratefully accept that as recompense.'

'The Kalki Astra? Hmm…', Ares ponders his request. 'And you know where this artifact is located?'

'I do. It lies in the Eastern Crypt, in the Armoury.'

'How do you know this?' His narrowed eyes are wary but then he shrugs dismissively. 'Actually, I don't care. Not now, when I just need to get Aphrodite back.'

Sherlock turns to Jon and sees concern flash across his Viking's features. 'May I have a quick word with Jon before we leave?' Sherlock asks.

'Of course.'

'Jon, you worry when you shouldn't.'

'Sherlock…you're going to the Underworld and I'm not going with you. So forgive me for worrying.'

'Jon, I will return.'

Jon looks down at their feet. 'You'd better because if you don't, I'll kill you and send you to the Underworld myself', he mutters.

'That decides it, then', Sherlock laughs softly and is about to address Ares when he feels a cautionary touch on his forearm.

'Sherlock', Jon calls out softly. 'What about Enki? Can you afford this delay? He has likely already arrived in Aegyptus.'

'Given the circumstances, I have few options. Helping Ares rescue Aphrodite is the best way to secure the device. Do you trust me?'

'I trust you. Just come back.' To me, he thinks.

'I will, Jon.' Sherlock turns to Ares. 'I'm ready', he says.

'Hades' guard dog, the three-headed Cerberus, keeps constant watch over Aphrodite. It is nigh impossible to overcome the fiend with physical force because he possesses demonic strength bestowed upon him by Hades. My best option is to put him to sleep and although poisons and spells have little effect on him, he is known to be susceptible to music. I must enlist the help of the wonderful Orpheus, son of Apollo and Calliope. He is an exceptionally gifted singer and musician. With the two of you beside me, I am hopeful of rescuing my beloved Aphrodite from the gnarled clutches of Hades. Come, Shara. We must hurry!'

Jon watches the departing forms of Ares and Sherlock with a sigh and slumps against a pillar, resigned to a long wait for his lover's return.

* * *

Sherlock is stunned when he lays eyes on Orpheus. Apollo's son is a magnificently proportioned young man with long, golden tresses that tumble down in shining waves to his shoulders and are held in place with an olive wreath. Tanned skin stretches out over long and lean muscles. His face is the perfect amalgam of his parents – deep blue eyes and plush, bow-shaped lips bear the softness of Calliope, rounded out by the patrician nose, square chin and high cheekbones of Apollo. He appears to be carved out of a block of immaculate marble and glows with an aristocratic beauty that is completely incongruous with the dark gloom of the Underworld. He carries with him a lyre and when he speaks, Sherlock feels the vibrations of his lovely voice soak into his skin. Cerberus doesn't stand a chance, Jon, Sherlock tells his lover in his head.

Ares, Orpheus and Sherlock descend to the depths of the Underworld and when they near Styx, the River of the Dead, Sherlock's senses are assailed by the noxious green mist that hangs over the river. A shiver runs down his spine when he sees the despondent spirits of the deceased floating just below the surface. Sherlock blinks at the macabre sight of a skull piercing the fog. It is planted on the bow of an approaching boat steered by a man of sepulchral mien and voice. The ferryman addresses Ares.

'I know why you are here, Ares, but I cannot row you across the Styx without getting in trouble with the boss.'

'Nine oboloi, Charon' Ares says, holding out his hand in which lie nine silver coins, 'thrice your usual fee for three passengers. If you know why I am here, you must know that I will cross this river somehow, with or without your help. I know Hades is on Olympus now for the weekly council with his brothers, Zeus and Poseidon. Take us across and bring us back and I'll hand you fifteen more oboloi.'

Charon looks at the nine coins of silver in his palm. He also wants the unprecedented fifteen-oboloi bonus for bringing them back to the land of the living. 'Very well, Ares, but you'd better be quick. If you're not out of there in fifteen minutes, you're on your own.'

'Fine', Ares snaps and the three living men step into the rickety boat which Charon slowly rows across the putrid waters of the Styx. Jagged fingers of lifeless rock curve up on either side of the river like giant talons of stone and disappear into clouds of despair, Their boat suddenly rocks when the souls of two dead men clutch at its sides, trying to climb on to the boat; Charon beats them off with his oar, poking at their dead eyes and grinding his foot down on their skeletal fingers. The souls splash back into the murky river with a soulful lament and glide beneath the surface.

'These bastards don't realize that it's a one-way ticket to Hell and that they're never returning to the land of the living', Charon's mordant comment echoes in the eerie silence. The river thickly lapping against the side of the boat and Charon's oar periodically dipping into the waters are the only sounds they hear until they reach the other side.

'Wait for us', Ares commands.

'Fifteen minutes, Ares.'

'We'll be back.'

* * *

Ares, Orpheus and Sherlock step out of the Charon's ferry onto uneven ground. A loud snarl echoes from a dark cave to their left.

'Cerberus!' Ares whispers. 'That way. That's where Aphrodite is being held.'

They hurry in the direction of the low growl into the cave. It is pitch black; no light enters or escapes the dark cavern so Sherlock conjures up Trishula, his trident, which glows with a white light and illumines their way. They climb down a treacherous stone stairwell, jagged in parts and slippery in others, until they reach the bottom and are, all of a sudden, faced with a massive beast of black. Six bloodshot eyes watch the three men while Cerberus' three enormous mouths snap at them, frothing and exposing huge canines. Its hot breath clouds the cave and its menacing growls bounce off the walls of the cave in a raucous symphony.

Behind the beast, an uneven circle of light reveals a second, smaller cave blocked by a huge boulder - the cave that holds Aphrodite. Her beautiful light cannot be extinguished even here, in the belly of the Underworld. Ares gazes wistfully at the cave, wanting nothing more than to push the boulder aside and take his beloved in his arms again but his musings are rudely shattered by the loud snapping of frothing teeth near his face. The iron chains around the beast's necks are pulled tight as it lunges at Ares. It rears and lunges again, yanking its restraints until it starts to choke and must, unwillingly, retreat.

'Ares!' Sherlock cries out. 'Watch out!'

Ares springs back and slashes the air around the left-most head of the beast with his sword. The broad head jerks back with a loud roar. Sherlock brandishes Asi at the head on the right while Orpheus looks into the eyes of the head in the middle and begins to play his lyre. He sings a lullaby; he sings of comfort and beautiful dreams. The snapping jaws of the beast's head gradually relax and open in a wide yawn to exhale a hot gust of wind, blowing Orpheus' hair around his face. He softens his tune to a more serene melody and sees the beast's eyes droop and its head drop. The other two heads nip at the head in the middle and it shakes its somnolence off, roaring at Orpheus. He redoubles his efforts, playing his lyre and singing until the middle head finally succumbs to the call of sleep and drops heavily. The head on the right bites angrily at Orpheus, trying to snatch the lyre out of his hands but Sherlock jabs at its jaws with Asi while the golden-haired youth continues to play and sing. A few excruciatingly long minutes later, the head on the right also falls asleep.

'We're running out of time, Orpheus!' Ares cries out. 'We've got five minutes before Charon sails away!'

'I'm doing my best! There are three heads, remember?!'

Sherlock cocks his head, as if making a decision, then reaches into the deep recesses of his mind and conjures up a violin. Ignoring the surprise on his companions' faces, he begins to play a complementary melody. Orpheus sighs with hope and picks up his song again and the two musicians level their gazes and their instruments at Cerberus' stubborn left head, tempting it to slumber. Sherlock adds his voice to the mix, underscoring Orpheus' smooth treble tones with a baritone refrain of 'Sleep. Sleeep. Sleeeep. Sleeeep.'

At long last, the beast's last pair of eyes draws shut, its third head drops to its chest and its body collapses like a stone, the hollow caverns reverberating as it crumples to the ground in a heavy lump of flesh, limbs and chains. Its breathing has steadied to a soft and rhythmic snort, hot puffs of white forming and dissipating from its three snouts.

With a cry of joy, Ares runs around the insensate beast to the boulder blocking the entrance to the cave. Grunting, he pushes against it but it won't budge. Sherlock and Orpheus add their muscle to his to no avail. Then Sherlock speaks.

'Step back', he orders and holds up Trishula. Aiming the trident at the centre of the boulder, he plunges it into the solid stone. A flash of light momentarily blinds the three men and the boulder splinters with a deafening crack, creating a hole right through the stone. A beautiful streak of pure white light, like a moonbeam on a cloudless summer night, shines through that hole, bathing the dark and dank caverns with its healing glow.

'Aphrodite! My love!' the God of War's voice trembles with emotion as he peers through the hole and lays eyes upon his captive love. 'I'm coming for you, my love!' he cries out and slams his fist into the cracked rock, fuelled more by the impassioned madness of a lover separated from his heart than his own divine strength, once, twice, thrice until the rock disintegrates and falls away and he hurries over the rubble to take his beautiful lover into his arms. Sherlock and Orpheus look away as Ares drops kisses of relief over Aphrodite cheeks and mouth and neck. 'I'm marrying you tonight and will kill Hades if he dares to lay eyes on my bride again', he growls. 'We must hurry before Charon takes off. I don't trust that bastard. They're all bastards down here.'

* * *

'Sherlock!' a jubilant cry echoes through the empty hall in the Temple of Ares.

Jon runs up to his lover but stops short when he sees Ares behind him, holding the hand of the loveliest woman Jon has ever beheld. A diffused, white halo shines around her form and a deep warmth emanates from her that can only be love. She is, indeed, the Goddess of Love and Beauty. A handsome youth with hair of gold and features like an alabaster sculpture walks beside them.

'Jon, this is Orpheus. And this, well, of course this is Aphrodite', Sherlock says by way of introduction.

'My lady', Jon says and drops to one knee, taking Aphrodite's hand to lay a kiss upon her knuckles.

'Jon, Jon Wöttson', he hears a sweet voice hail him. 'Your friend helped save me today and reunite me with my love.'

'Yes, he tends to do that', Jon says with barely concealed pride. 'He's a hero, my friend.'

Sherlock looks at the floor bashfully. 'You can stop, Jon. Orpheus did most of the work.'

'People seem to be forgetting that it was I who smashed the boulder in', Ares says in mock annoyance. Aphrodite laughs, a crystalline sound like the chiming of bells, and places a soft kiss on her lover's cheek.

'You did smash the boulder in, my love. I'm sure Shara's trident didn't help all that much', Aphrodite teases her lover fondly.

'Well, it helped a bit', he allows grudgingly and smiles when she kisses his cheek again.

'Shara and Jon,' Ares says, turning to the two men, 'you would do Aphrodite and me a great honour by gracing our marriage as our guests of honour. Should you like to rest before the festivities, you are welcome to accompany me to my palace.'

'You are very kind, Ares, and the honour would be ours. We thank you for your hospitality. A respite would be most welcome.'

'And you, Orpheus. Please go home to Eurydice at once. I don't want her accusing me of putting her husband in harm's way. Not on the day of my marriage', Ares laughs.

* * *

Sherlock and Jon face each other in the middle of a lavish bed chamber. As in Giza, they have been pampered by Graecian maidens who have bathed them and laid out fresh chitons on the bed. Purple for Sherlock and indigo for Jon. The two lovers stand with miniscule towels wrapped around their wet bodies. They dismiss their attendants as soon as is socially acceptable and the moment the last attendant exits their chamber, Sherlock pulls Jon into his arms and drops his mouth on his.

'Jon, I can't wait this long again to take you in my arms', he mutters between kisses. Their mouths meet wetly in a desperate slide of lips over teeth and tongue. They lick and suck and kiss and sigh, grasping each other painfully tight as if trying to meld their physical forms. Sherlock tears his mouth from Jon's and pushes him onto the bed. He yanks Jon's towel off and bends over his prone form and lightly drags his lips over the tip of Jon's tumescent cock.

'Jawn…', he breathes over Jon's tingling bulb, 'tell me how to bring you pleasure.'

'Gods, Sherlock!' Jon gasps, the warmth of his lover's breath seeping into his hardness through his glans.

'Anything, Jon, I'll do anything. Tell me what you want', he murmurs, kissing down Jon's throbbing length.

'Remember when I took you in my mouth?' Jon moans softly when Sherlock nuzzles the coarse hair at the base of his cock and hums his approval into his shivering skin.

'Will you…will you suck me? Like that?' Jon's voice quivers.

'I'll suck you, Jon. I'll suck you till you spill your seed in my mouth', Sherlock growls and laps at Jon's tip, tasting the pre-come and savouring it. He catalogues the taste as 'bitter, elemental' and files it under 'Jon'. Parting his lips, he takes Jon's swollen bulb in its entirety into his mouth and sucks on it softly, pulling off till only the tip is between his lips and then dipping down again to take it all in.

Jon's vision swims as his cock is engulfed in a wet caress. 'Unnnnhhh', he groans. 'Shrrllk, gods, Shrl...huhh', he spews garbled nonsense and pushes down on Sherlock's head. His lover understands and loosens his jaws to sink down over Jon's cock, taking him all the way to his throat. His hot tongue laps around the hard flesh, feeling the thin skin slip over the shaft underneath. Holding Jon's cock inside, he opens his mouth wide to allow his tongue to move, tracing the throbbing vein on the underside from root to tip, flicking his tongue in circles over the top and licking down again. Jon feels like his life force is being sucked out of his body through his cock when Sherlock hollows his cheeks and tugs on his flesh, raising his head slowly, clamping tight on Jon's cock and then relaxing his jaw and sinking down in one fell swoop, teasing unintelligible cries of pleasure from Jon's twisted mouth as he pleasures him like the doyen of fellatio. Long fingers cup Jon's taut balls in their loose sac, playing with them, moving them around in their thin bag covered with coarse hair, running along the seam in the middle and squeezing lightly, a squeeze that seems to push a pulse of pleasure from Jon's balls all the way up to his lungs and tear out of his throat in an ecstatic cry.

'Sherlock, I'm close', Jon moans, pulling on Sherlock's hair to warn him but his hand is slapped away and his lover descends on his cock again, taking him all the way into his throat. Then Sherlock swallows and the clamp of his wet throat against Jon's sensitised tip knocks him over the edge and he comes gloriously down Sherlock's mouth. Hot streams of ejaculate gush down Sherlock's willing mouth as he drinks Jon's essence devotedly, not wanting a single drop to escape his desperate lips.

When Jon tugs hard at his head again, Sherlock pulls off with a reluctant grunt, a question in his pale eyes. Jon holds his gaze and tugs at his cock, watching long ropes of come spurt proudly from his tip and land on his flat belly, some of it pooling in his navel.

'Again', he nods, breathless with pleasure, and Sherlock gratefully lowers his head again and laps at Jon's softening flesh for a long time, humming appreciatively when he feels Jon shudder with unexpected jolts of pleasure. Sherlock reaches a hand up to place over Jon's chest and moans around Jon's cock when he feels his heart hopping like a captive leveret in its bony cage. He has given Jon this pleasure. He has taken Jon apart. He has unraveled Jon. He can't recall a moment when he has felt prouder.

'Unnnhhh, Sherlock, I can't take anymore. Please, come up here. Let me kiss you', Jon moans.

Sherlock scrambles up to him and covers his mouth with frantic kisses. Jon licks into that open cavern, tasting his come on Sherlock's tongue and moaning with the utter intimacy of the exchange.

'Your turn', Jon whispers against Sherlock's flushed and glistening lips and sits up to scoop up his come from his stomach into his palm. He tugs at Sherlock's towel and tosses it aside.

'Lie back and let me pleasure you', he murmurs and rubs his come over Sherlock's cock, mixing it with the glistening bead of pre-come that jiggles in Sherlock's slit. When he is satisfied that Sherlock is sufficiently lubricated, he pulls his hand back, spits on his fingers twice and rubs them over his palm, mixing come, pre-come and saliva into an improvised lubricant. Straddling Sherlock's hips, he leans over him and reaches behind with his moist hand. Sherlock watches, spellbound, as Jon's eyes close and his mouth falls open when he presses a finger into himself. His chest heaves with his staggered breath and his head hangs between his shoulders as he pushes a second and then a third finger in, opening himself in a hurry. His orgasm has loosened him a little and his fingers easily breach his hole. Eager to be filled by his lover, he pulls his fingers out and wipes them on his towel.

'I'm going to take you inside me, Sherlock', he breathes over Sherlock's open month and then sits up, positioning his hole over Sherlock's cock. Holding his lover's gaze, he sinks down, slowly, very slowly, feeling Sherlock's bulb pop through his tight sphincter. He stills his hips there, grimacing against the burn and willing his passage to relax. His head falls back and slow gasps of pain leave his throat while he lowers himself by inches, taking more and more of Sherlock inside until he is seated over his lover's hips and Sherlock is fully cosseted in his wet passage. Coarse pubic hair rubs his arse cheeks and the sensitive skin of his cleft when he moves his hips in slow, seductive circles, feeling Sherlock move inside him, pushing against one side of his passage and then the other.

'Gods, Sherlock. You fill me', he pants and pumps his hips, rocking up and down, side to side, circling, undulating, jerking. Large, strong hands grasp his hips to still them and Sherlock takes control, flipping Jon onto his back, grabbing his legs behind his knees and pushing them up until he is almost bent in half, his arse fully open to Sherlock's cock that is still buried in him.

'Sherlock, Gods!' Jon groans. 'Fuck me. Own me. Let me feel you in my throat…' his voice trails off into an embarrassingly high-pitched shout of delight when Sherlock begins to spear into him in earnest. Sherlock pauses to laugh at his unbridled reaction but Jon gets his revenge by clenching his hole and jerking his hips down twice in quick succession, just enough to pull lightly on Sherlock's swollen shaft. He cheekily sticks his tongue out when Sherlock squeals at the sudden, tantalizingly tight tug on his flesh.

'Jon! I'm not a cow and that is not my teat. Stop trying to milk me.'

Jon seems to interpret that as "Please milk me again" because he jerks his hips twice more, giggling loudly at Sherlock's howl of pleasure.

'Now you've done it, Jon', Sherlock grins, squeezes Jon into a crushing embrace and pounds his cock into him, leaving the helpless Viking holding on to his shoulders and rocking back on the bed. Sherlock's cock throbs inside Jon's wet passage; he suddenly goes rigid, his spine arches, his shoulders flex and then he melts over Jon, his shoulders pushing Jon's thighs apart to fall boneless on his chest. Jon's breath leaves his lungs in a loud huff when the full weight of his lover's torso lands on him and his legs wrap around Sherlock's hips, feeling heat pour into his passage, luxuriating in the feeling of Sherlock emptying his essence inside him. Sherlock's mouth is open and his soft sobs are muffled against Jon's skin. Jon runs his fingers through Sherlock's hair, humming into his lover's temple to calm his trembling body. After a while, Sherlock lifts his head to kiss Jon and they lie like that for a long time, fused at mouth and pelvis, kissing without pulling apart, breathing for each other, into each other, every kiss a reassuring press of lips; the eroticism and gentle violence of the early part of their coupling have calmed into tenderness, pure and honest.

Sherlock finally pulls out of him, rolling off his body to lie on his back. The two lovers stare at the ornate ceiling, ignoring the beautiful carvings in favour of their own muddled thoughts. Then Jon speaks.

'We should clean up and get ready for the ceremony. It might behoove us to bathe again', he chuckles, throwing a rueful glance at their sticky bodies.


	10. The masks we wear

Chapter summary: Deception...

* * *

**The masks we wear**

The Temple of Ares is awash in a mellow golden light. The air sparkles with the spirit of celebration. Graecian youths and maidens clap their hands in unison and step lively to joyous music, their long chitons alternately billowing and falling as they twirl around the room in a sprightly rhythm. Scores of guests, gods and mortals, mill about in the Great Hall at the centre of the temple, enjoying the festive sights and sounds that mark the marriage of the God of War to the Goddess of Love. Every face in the room, with one exception, beams with joy; that lone face frowns at the female forms that crowd around him and his companion. Well, mostly around his companion because he maintains a dark scowl that keeps his admirers at arm's length.

Sherlock tries to make his way to Jon but is stopped by the long fingers of a delicate hand that close around his wrist.

'Hello, stranger. Who might you be?'

'I might be Sherlock', he growls in irritation, turning to look into translucent blue irises like a cloudless sky on a sunny day.

A tall woman stands before him. Her allure is unmissable and her interest in him even less so. Dark kohl lines mysterious eyes that seem to peer into his very soul. Black hair forms a wavy halo around high cheekbones that dip into smooth cheeks and blood red lips part to reveal white teeth and a pink tongue, wet with desire. She is his match in every way, a perfect marriage of intellect and beauty.

'"Sherlock?" the woman cocks an eyebrow and tuts at him indulgently. 'Perhaps you meant to say Shara', she corrects him, her unctuous voice designed to titillate.

'Ah, so you are some sort of Goddess, I suppose', Sherlock sneers, knowing that the woman has seen through his Graecian disguise.

'I might be. Do you think of me as a goddess?'

'I don't think of you.'

'Careful! You might hurt a girl's feelings with your candor.'

'Mendacity is a waste of time.'

'It is, indeed. I could have anyone I want in this room, you know. Man or woman. This room, this very city is my playground.'

'In that case, I am at a loss to understand why you linger around me. Please, go and play!' Sherlock snaps, waving his hand in the direction of the room.

'But I have a problem, see? I don't want anyone else. I want you. Your eyes drew me to you. Gods! Your eyes, Shara – they speak of dark secrets that I am desperate to learn. I know the mortals in the room see your purple chiton draping pale flesh but I see you for your blue self, Shara and I want it. I want your body. My flesh swells and grows wet between my legs. I grow weak imagining how you'd look if I tore that chiton off your beautiful body. Do you know of what I speak? I could teach you the pleasures of a woman's body. I want to trace the patterns on your skin, I want to venerate the shape of your…manhood…', she flashes him a dark look and breathes, 'with my mouth', and runs her tongue along her upper lip. It glistens wetly when her tongue retreats.

'You're wasting your time, madam', he cuts her off curtly, completely unmoved by her blatant sexuality.

'Am I? Do you have other interests here? Who is it that has caught your eye? Hmm…Ariadne? Probably not. She's too frail for you. Artemis and Athena perhaps? One the Goddess of the Hunt, the other the Goddess of Knowledge. Together they would form a fine consort for you but individually? No, I don't think so. Is it Rhea or Selene? No, they seem too frivolous to be your type.'

'This is getting tiresome. Please let go of my hand.'

'Why? Do you not wish to avail yourself of the pleasures of female companionship? I'm offering, if you're interested. Oh…it's not a woman who holds you, is it?'

'I am clearly not interested in what you offer. I would suggest that you apply your feminine wiles to the other willing men and women in this room and, as you yourself assured me, there are many. I cannot fathom why you tarry here with me when we both know that your overtures will be ineffectual.'

'Shara, Shara, Shara…you don't know who I am. You don't know what I could give you, show you or', she adds, clearly threatening, 'take from you. I'd advise you to be careful and think long and very hard before you turn me down. It is plain to anyone with a modicum of perspicacity that you desire Jon. You can have him, of course. Gods! I don't want you forever, just one night. See what it is to lie with the other sex.' She peers at him and studies his eyes. 'Interesting! You have only recently been deflowered. By Jon. Aah! That would have been glorious to watch, wouldn't it? I'd want to see you being taken. A beautiful blue god losing himself to a mortal. I think I could climax just thinking of that. Gods, I can imagine how much more intense it will be to come with you spurting inside me, your cock pulsing hot and wet and filling me with your seed', she whispers with a shivering breath.

'I must warn you that my patience is running thin. Very thin. Kindly leave me alone.'

'One kiss, then, Shara. Just one kiss. Let me see how those lovely dark lips feel against mine', she breathes and before Sherlock can react, she has thrown her arms around his neck and pulled him into a kiss. Her lips press against his while her tongue forcibly snakes its way inside, licking wetly, seeking his tongue, finding it and stroking it hard.

Sherlock's stomach churns with revulsion. His skin crawls because her body feels like a lizard's against his. With a shout of disgust, he grasps her arms hard and wrenches himself out of her clutches.

'That's enough! Leave. Me. Alone. You disgust me. Touch me again and I won't be responsible for what I do', he snarls.

The woman stumbles back in shock. ''You think Jon wants you? Think again – he's having the time of his life with these women. In fact, it's not just women – look! He's got gods and heroes salivating for his attentions: Apollo, Dionysus, Jason, Theseus and Eros! You're not special, Shara. You're nothing!' she spits. 'You're pathetic. Just a piece of man meat he used for his pleasure until the next body came along. He can have his pick of Graecian beauty tonight and you're powerless to stop him.'

Her diatribe is interrupted by the sound of a woman's voice calling out to her but when she turns back to look at Sherlock, her exquisite features crease in ugly resentment because he has dismissed her and is already out of earshot, walking purposefully towards Jon. The crimson pendant that hangs like a large drop of blood between her milky breasts glows angrily and her eyes briefly change to pitch black before returning to their natural blue. 'You should not have done that, Shara', she hisses at his retreating figure. 'You'll be sorry.' Then she tosses her hair back with an arrogant flick of her head and walks away.

Sherlock has already put the vixen out of his mind as he regards the bevy of men and women surrounding Jon with dark annoyance which quickly deteriorates to panic. The women coo over Jon, run their hands through his blond locks, so uncommon among Graecia's dark-haired men, and stroke the muscles of his arms that are revealed when the sleeves of his chiton fall open as he lifts his arms. Long fingers run along Jon's jawline and down his neck. Sherlock rudely pushes his way through the throng of bosoms and soft fair flesh alternating with hard muscles and tanned skin to reach Jon. His Viking stands with his back to him, gesticulating and engaged in animated conversation with Apollo while the other rapt Graecians hang on his every word.

'Jon', he calls out loudly, not caring that he's interrupting their dialogue.

Jon turns around and his face relaxes into a radiant grin when he sees his lover. Sherlock moves close to Jon, so close that his chest presses against Jon's shoulder. His arm encircles Jon's waist and the proprietary fingers of his hand curl around Jon's hip.

'Sherlock! Everyone, I want you to meet Sherlock', he says and edges up to Sherlock to press into his side.

Sherlock attempts to make pleasant noises but wants nothing more than to be left alone. His presence has sent a clear message to the rest of the adoring Graecians; they disappointedly accept that Jon is spoken for and slowly disperse into the room, leaving them alone.

'What were you doing, Jon?' Sherlock's tone betrays his nervousness.

'I was just chatting. Why do you sound perturbed?'

'I'm not perturbed', Sherlock huffs and drops his mouth on Jon's in a brief and clumsy kiss, quickly pulling away at the sound of his name.

It is Ares who calls him and they walk up to where the God of War stands with his bride and Apollo, admiring Orpheus on the dais playing his lyre.

'He plays beautifully, doesn't he', Jon blurts out appreciatively, not realizing that Sherlock's jaw has tightened.

Jon is lost in the mellifluous strains of Orpheus' lyre, his appreciative gaze locked on the young flaxen-haired man. Sherlock's eyes flit unhappily from Jon to Orpheus and he pulls his lower lip between his teeth, biting hard. Orpheus' long blond tresses move in soft waves as he sways his head to his music, his eyes closed, transported by the melody he is coaxing out of his strings. Then his lashes part and deep blue eyes open and catch Jon's admiring gaze. Sherlock looks away hastily, his brow bunched in anguish. Ares notices Sherlock's face cloud and his jaws clench with the effort of hiding his unease and decides to play Cupid for the evening.

'Shara! My lovely bride wishes to hear you play the violin for our guests, if you would be so kind as to grace our marriage with your music.'

'I didn't know you played the violin, Sherlock!' Jon says with a surprised smile.

'Once or twice', Sherlock shrugs.

'Your friend has a gift for understatement, Jon', Ares interjects. 'Orpheus' lyre put two of Cerberus' heads to sleep. It was Shara's violin that calmed the third, most bellicose head. Without the help of these two men, my Aphrodite wouldn't be standing here with me today.'

'Shara', Aphrodite's voice tinkles like little bells of joy, 'Tell us a story from your life with your music, any story you would share with us, and while you do, I want to get to know your companion better', she says, bestowing a beatific smile on Jon. 'I want to learn about the man for whom Shara would forsake all others.'

"I would forsake everyone for you, Jon. Everyone and everything", Sherlock thinks but doesn't look at Jon as he walks up to the dais to sit on a stool beside Orpheus. He is handed a violin and bow by one of the maidens and tucks it under his left chin, his left hand positioned over the fingerboard. He plays a few isolated notes and adjusts the pegs to tune the instrument. When he is satisfied, he looks over at Jon and holds his gaze as he begins playing.

He starts slowly, with short, broken notes that bring to mind a cautious first meeting, tiptoeing around emotions of which he dare not speak. Hesitation, suspicion, hope. Tentative wisps of melody float through the hall and gradually rise in pitch and volume to an energetic burst of percussive notes evoking images of a heated fracas. The violin then smoothly swoops into a dark, legato progression, seductive and haunting. Their audience fades into insignificance as Sherlock and Jon watch each other, transfixed. Jon recognizes Sherlock's descant as a musical retelling of their experiences so far, from the first time they met to their impassioned physical combat in the Armoury in Asgard which culminated in a night of violent sex, ending in tender surrender – a night when secrets were revealed and confessions were made. Jon's pulse slows to a serene thrum when he feels a chord of electric emotion binding him to Sherlock, breath to breath, heart to heart, soul to soul. But he is snapped out of his tranquility when Sherlock abruptly halts and his fingers and bow beat out a bodacious staccato verse that conveys peril, death and destruction which then surges to an inspired crescendo of hope, one that speaks of rebirth and resurrection. They wordlessly share their memories of that battle in which they jointly averted Ragnarök and Sherlock's harmony changes to one of softness, of safety and companionship. The same note played over two octaves, resonating and pulsating like echoing heartbeats, intertwined ribbons of melody that converge until they are but overtones of each other, insinuations of loyalty and trust, of friendship and endearment. Sherlock and Jon, Jon and Sherlock. Friends and partners and more. Sherlock and Jon. Lovers. He has taken Jon on a journey from that first time when they looked directly at each other to this moment in time, here in the Temple of Ares at the marriage of the God of War to the Goddess of Love. Hawk and Dove joined forever. The rest of their story is yet to be written so Sherlock closes his eyes, the break in his connection with Jon signified by a dramatic pause in his music. Then he opens his eyes and turns to look at Ares and Aphrodite. His song changes to one of separation followed by reunion. He ends on a wistful, sustained note that sings of promise, of benediction and of love.

He lowers his violin to his lap and looks around at the bride, groom and guests. They stand in stunned silence, mesmerised by Sherlock's virtuoso performance. A single pair of hands begins to clap. It is Ares and he is agog with wonderment. Aphrodite joins in and one by one, the spellbound guests are freed from Sherlock's thrall and thundering applause echoes in the large chamber. Jon's eyes meet Sherlock's and he shakes his head slowly, incredulously. He is overwhelmed, entranced by his lover's music. Sherlock is filled with joy at having brought his Viking joy and the two mutual devotees stay rooted to their spots, seeing only each other in this large hall until Sherlock feels a hand touch him and turns.

'Thank you, Shara', Aphrodite says, her hand on his bicep. 'That was truly divine. Yours is a beautiful tale and I know that you and Jon will always find your way to each other, no matter what hardships you encounter.'

Ares places an appreciative hand on Sherlock's shoulder. 'Thank you, Shara', he says, his words heavy with sincerity. 'The Kalki Astra has been delivered to your chamber. You have my gratitude and that of my Aphrodite.' He turns to address his guests.

'Let's celebrate with dance!' Ares jubilantly exhorts everyone. At once the young Graecian men and women join hands, forming a circle, and launch into a spirited rendition of the Horos which then dovetails into the lovely steps of the Dionysiakos dance. Orpheus and Sherlock accompany the dancers by playing harmonious tunes on their lyre and violin, alternating the chorus with solo verses while a young men keeps rhythm on his tympanum.

Jon leans against a pillar, watching his lover cradle the violin like it is an extension of his body. The smooth sounds of his instrument pervade Sherlock's body and it is hard to tell where the man ends and his music begins. Once again, Sherlock has amazed him. His brilliance in science, logic and deduction is so completely contrasted by this softer side, by his exceptional musical gifts. He knows right then that Sherlock represents a perfect storm that will forever brew in the heart of Jon Wöttson.

A hand touches his shoulder and he turns to see Apollo standing beside him, holding out a cup of mead. 'A toast to the lovely couple?' Apollo asks with a hint of a smile. The God's green eyes twinkle and Jon wonders for a second which lovely couple Apollo means but decides to assume he means the bride and groom.

'They are a lovely couple, indeed', Jon concurs, taking the cup from Apollo's hand and turning to the dais where Orpheus and Sherlock are enjoying their joint music making.

Sherlock notices Jon conversing with Apollo and watching him and Orpheus when he sees Jon clutch Apollo's arm and Apollo's arm encircle Jon's waist to pull him upright against him. His bow nearly screeches out a discordant note when Apollo leads Jon through the tall door, still holding his body, and they disappear down the corridor. Sherlock feels faint. Jon has left him. He has to know why and leans over to Orpheus.

'I need to stop after this', he whispers. When their current song comes to an end, he thanks Orpheus and excuses himself. Stumbling off the dais, he weaves his way through pockets of happy gods and mortals partaking in the food and festivities of the night and once he has cleared the throng, hurries down the corridor out of the temple to Ares' palace.

A few minutes later, he arrives at the door to their bed chamber but freezes in disbelief when he sees their rumpled bed on which the naked and entwined bodies of Apollo and Jon writhe and rub against each other. Jon's legs are coiled tightly around Apollo's thighs as the God's agile hips pound into him. The air is thick with Jon's moans and Apollo's grunts as god and mortal lose themselves in the pleasures they are kindling in each other's bodies. Sherlock opens his mouth to shout but the sound chokes in his throat and he stares in mute horror as the two men continue their loud and vigorous fornication, oblivious of their shocked audience. Sherlock feels the bitter bile rise in his throat and then his vision blacks out as he falls to the floor in a lifeless heap. A few seconds later, he feels strong arms pull him up and hears a voice call his name. Unable to form coherent words or discern the visage of the man assisting him, he grabs on to the arms holding him and tries to stand but his legs buckle under him and he crashes to the ground again. The strapping arms pull him up once more and drag him to an armchair. He feels a blanket being spread over him and finally succumbs to the pull of blackness.

* * *

When he comes to, it is past noon the next day and Jon is hunched over him, his eyes wide with concern.

'Sherlock, Sherlock, are you alright?' the Viking asks, shaking his shoulders lightly to rouse him fully.

'Don't touch me!' Sherlock shouts and recoils from Jon's touch.

'What? Why? What's going on? I didn't mean to startle you. Are you alright?' Jon looks at his lover in consternation.

'Leave me alone, Jon Wöttson. Just. leave. me. alone', Sherlock rasps and stumbles out of their chamber. He storms back in a minute later to grab the Kalki Astra and lurches out again, leaving a flabbergasted Jon in his wake.

* * *

Sherlock prowls the streets of Sparta like a man haunted by demons of betrayal screaming in his head. He has dispatched the Kalki Astra to Enlil and roams the nameless streets, adrift and grieving. The pain he feels is not physical; it is not something he can heal with his divine powers. This agony gnaws at him. It reaches so deep inside that he fears he might be split into two. This is betrayal, this is rejection. He has been discarded in favour of a golden-haired god. He is breaking and there's no one to make him whole. He hates Jon for showing him a world of sentiment to which he can no longer blind himself, a world that is not to be his anymore. The logical part of his brain detects the complete collapse of emotional control and rushes in to salvage the situation. There is only one thing to do, it tells him. You have to leave Jon. You were strong when you were alone. Friendship is weakness.

Sherlock's emotionality struggles valiantly with his rationality until the latter delivers a decisive apothegm.

Solitude is what you had. Solitude will protect you.

The clamour in his mind stills. He is ready to face Jon again, one last time.

* * *

When he returns to their chamber a few hours later, Jon is sitting on the bed, waiting for him. His knuckles are white and he is digging his fingers into his palm. As soon as Sherlock enters the chamber, he shoots to his feet.

'Sherlock, where were you! I was worried!'

'Really? Why, Jon?' Sherlock's flat voice drips with bitterness. 'Why, exactly, were you worried?'

'Sherlock…', Jon touches his shoulder but is harshly shrugged off.

'Sherlock, please Sherlock...what's wrong? Please, I don't understand!'

Sherlock turns away from him, unable to bear the naked agony in Jon's eyes. 'I need to be alone. Can you give me that?'

'I'll give you anything I can, Sherlock. Will you look at me? Just look at me! Please!' he entreats his lover.

Sherlock turns and Jon is staggered by what he sees in those hard eyes. 'Sherlock...I see… loathing for me in your eyes. Am I imagining that?' he asks softly.

Sherlock's silence is deafening and Jon's voice is almost a sob when he asks 'Do you loathe me?'

Sherlock still doesn't speak.

'I must take your silence as confirmation, Sherlock', Jon's struggles to speak, his voice breaking with anguish. 'Will you at least tell me what I have done to deserve that?'

'You wore a mask with me, Jon', Sherlock spits, 'but I have seen who you are behind it.'

'M- Mask? What mask are you talking about? I don't know what you mean! Please just tell me what you think I've done!'

Jon notices that Sherlock is already wearing his Graha-Vāhan. 'I have to find the last Kalki Astra before Enki reaches Roma.'

'Give me five minutes and I'll be ready to leave. When we've found it, you'll tell me exactly what this is all about.'

'No.'

'What do you mean "No"?'

'You are not coming with me.'

'What? Why? You're leaving me here?'

'I must.'

'Why? What's going on, Sherlock? Please tell me. Please!'

Sherlock pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales heavily.

'It appears our…motivations are no longer compatible and consequently, I must proceed on my mission alone. Use this Graha-Vāhan when you are ready to return home. It has been programmed with coordinates for Asgard. Place it around your arm and press the button in the middle once to attach it to your body and then again to activate it. I thank you for your assistance with my mission thus far. Your companionship has been most...expedient.'

'Expedient. Really?' Jon's lips curl in hurt and disgust. 'Well, I am glad I have been expedient.'

'Farewell, Jon', Sherlock says and activates his Graha-Vāhan. As he is dematerialising, his eyes lock with Jon's and the Viking sees a bottomless sadness in them. The man leaving him is ruined and empty, a ghost of the spirited man who met him in Asgard and he doesn't know why. Sherlock looks betrayed. All Jon knows is that he has done, or Sherlock thinks he has done, something to destroy Sherlock like that. He wonders if Sherlock himself had been wearing a mask that he did not recognize. But then he is standing alone in the middle of their bed chamber.

Nothing makes sense! The previous day, they had lain together in one of the most intimate and tender moments in Jon's hard life but Sherlock has now accused him of duplicity, leaving both men broken and grieving from the sudden separation. Jon doesn't know how he will get to Roma. He only knows that he must. He has given Sherlock his word and must be with him till the end of his mission, no matter if they never speak again as friends.

'Sherlock, what have I done to make you turn from me?' he asks the empty chamber.


	11. I walk the last mile before I sleep

**Summary: **Death...

**Notes: **I'm flying solo from this chapter onwards so if you find any errors, do let me know and I'll fix them. The super awesome PickyPicky has been a wonderfully patient and incredibly helpful beta and her indelible mark can be seen in the first ten chapters. If you liked Chapters 1 – 10, she's had a big hand in that.

* * *

**I walk the last mile before I sleep**

'_Sherlock, what have I done to make you turn from me?' he asks the empty chamber._

* * *

Jon stands before Ares and Aphrodite in their palace. His sad countenance isn't something he wishes to impose on the bridal couple the morning after their first blissful night together as husband and wife but he has no choice. He needs their help.

'Jon, what troubles you?' Aphrodite asks, concern clouding her beautiful face. 'Where is Shara?'

'He has left.'

'Where has he gone?'

'He left for Roma. He- uh', Jon shakes his head, not wishing to reveal too much about their last exchange.

'But he left you here? Why? Has he taken leave of his senses?' Ares thunders. 'You and he were...' his voice trails off. 'Why would he leave you here?'

'He… it doesn't matter. I need to get to Roma somehow. He has programmed this…this _thing_ to take me back to Asgard', he stutters, holding out the Graha-Vāhan. 'I don't know how to reprogram it to take me to Roma but I need to get there. I _have_ to get to the Temple of Jupiter somehow. Can you help me?'

'Apollo's chariot is capable of inter-planetary travel but he can only take you after sundown. You'll have to wait, Jon. Go to your chamber. Rest a bit', the Goddess of Love tries to pacify him.

'I can't rest. I can't. I fear he is in mortal danger! I must get to him', the Viking's voice breaks.

The warrior in Jon tries to quell his aching heart and maintain his composure but Aphrodite sees through his anguish.

'You will, Jon, and once you've seen your mission through on Roma, you sit him down and get him to tell you exactly what is going on in that convoluted brain of his', Aphrodite touches his arm with an understanding smile. 'You will save him, Jon, and _he_ will save _you_. You were both meant for each other.'

Ares' warlike heart thaws at the sight of the clearly heartbroken Viking pacing the floor and clenching his fists. He recalls his own distress at the loss, albeit temporary, of his beloved Aphrodite. If, as Jon fears, Shara is faced with danger, there is no guarantee that they will ever see each other again alive if Jon doesn't get to Roma at the earliest.

'My love', Ares addresses his wife, 'your brother…'

'Oh! Of course!' she exclaims and closes her eyes to send a silent summons. _Brother, I need you._ A few seconds later, a divine being appears by her side. He wears a winged helmet and winged sandals.

'Hermes! Thank Zeus you are here!' Aphrodite throws her arms around the Messenger of the Gods.

'Sister dear, why have you called me? And on the day after your marriage? Do you wish to return to Mount Olympus so soon?' Hermes shoots a mischievous glance at the God of War.

'Your sister is very happy with me, Hermes, thank you for your concern', Ares shakes his head at his brother-in-law indulgently.

'Hermes, this is Jon Wöttson of Nóregr. He needs our help. Can you get him to the Temple of Jupiter in Roma posthaste?'

'Of course I can, Aphrodite. You know that and that's why you called me here. But why do you wish to help this mortal?'

'His companion, Shara of Nibiru, helped rescue me from the Underworld. Shara has left Jon and rushed off to Roma. Please help him, brother! It pains me to see true love torn asunder by a misapprehension.'

It would take a barren heart of stone to turn the imploring Goddess of Love down. Hermes has no choice but to acquiesce.

'Very well, sister', he sighs, 'I will help this Jon Wöttson.'

'Oh, thank you, Hermes!'

'Jon Wöttson', Hermes appraises the Viking with a keen eye. 'My sister doesn't take to just any stranger, especially a mortal from another world. You and this Shara of yours must be very special. Here, wear these', he instructs as his sandals float up from his feet and hover near Jon's chest.

Jon looks at Hermes questioningly.

'My sandals will take you to the Temple of Jupiter in Roma in the blink of an eye.'

Jon reaches out to take hold of the sandals.

'You might want to blink. Literally', Hermes adds with a laugh. 'Or you'll find your head spinning for days after.'

'How will I get them back to you?'

'Don't worry about that. They'll come off your feet as soon as you arrive and will be returned to me.'

'I don't know how to thank y-', Jon begins but Hermes waves off his gratitude.

'I have neither the time nor a need for niceties. I'm doing this for my sister. Now, I'm in a hurry – people to meet, places to go, missives to deliver for Zeus – so if you don't mind, could you pick the pace up a bit and _get moving_?' Hermes taps a foot impatiently.

'Hermes, be polite!' Aphrodite admonishes her brother lovingly. 'Pay him no heed, Jon. He's always been abrupt. Helps with his job, I suppose', she laughs. 'But in all seriousness, you should get to Shara at once. Hermes' sandals will take you there on wings of light.'

'Here,' Ares holds out his palm, 'a link from Hephaestus' chains. It will grow to a chain of whatever length is needed. I hope you only need it to bind your foolish mistrusting companion to you for all eternity. And take this sword. It is also forged by Hephaestus and is effective against divine beings. I wish you well, Jon.'

'Ares, Aphrodite, thank you for your help. I am so grateful. So very grateful', Jon drops his head.

'I have seen Shara and you as two halves of a whole, destined to meet across the universe. Hurry to him, Jon. Farewell!' the Goddess of Love bids him goodbye.

Jon pulls Hermes' sandals over his own and closes his eyes.

* * *

When he opens his eyes a moment later, he is standing outside the Temple of Jupiter. It is dark; not a leaf stirs in the quiet night. He looks down at his feet and sees Hermes' winged sandals disappear. They are likely already back with their master, he thinks and looks around.

A loud cry from the Temple shatters the silent night. It is the voice of the man he despaired of ever seeing again, the man for whom he would spend eternity in the boiling pits of Helheim.

'Sherlock!' he shouts, rushing up the Temple's marble steps to push the heavy wooden door open. His eyes quickly assess the situation: his erstwhile lover is beset by two other beings, equally tall and with emerald skin covered with similar white patterns. They smite at him relentlessly with sword and spear. Jon recognises the older aggressor as Enki, God of the Underworld on Nibiru, and the younger as his son, Asag, the demon, from the exchange of Sherlock's memories in Asgard. Sherlock holds Asi in one hand and Trishula in the other and uses them to alternately deflect and attack. The Kalki Astra lies on the floor of the Temple a few feet behind Sherlock.

_Fuck! They got here before Sherlock could send the device to Enlil. Fuck! Fuck!_

Sherlock is in mid-feint to avoid a strike from Asag's sword when Enki aims his staff at him.

'Sherlock!' Jon cries out in warning and rushes into the melee, brandishing Ares' sword. Sherlock's head snaps up to look at Enki; he instinctively lowers his left arm in a flash and swings it outwards, using Trishula to knock Enki off his feet while Jon swipes at the Annunaki's staff-wielding arm with his sword. The blade cuts into the skin on Enki's forearm and he hisses loudly in pain; his fist flies opens reflexively and drops his staff to the floor at Jon's feet. Jon immediately kicks it away and it skids unimpeded over the polished marble, stopping only when it encounters a pillar. Sherlock's eyes meet Jon's and they pause for a fraction of a second. Asag at once exploits this temporary lapse in Sherlock's attention and slashes his sword on Sherlock's chest, slicing the skin to leave a long and deep gash that bleeds profusely.

'Aaargh!' Sherlock shouts and stumbles back, clamping his hand over his chest to stem the flow of blood. He doesn't have enough time to heal himself because Asag's onslaught is inexorable, his sword whizzing through the air around Sherlock. He throws a quick sidelong glance in the direction of Enki and sees him reaching for the Kalki Astra.

'Get the device!' he shouts to Jon and both Viking and Annunaki make a move for the white spear. Enki is much quicker than Jon and is about to take hold of the device when his arms are unexpectedly snapped tight against his body by the coils of a metal chain, the other end of which is in the hands of the seething Asgardian who pulls hard on the chain to yank him off his feet once more. "_Hephaestus"_ Enki curses, looking down at the golden links that press into his skin. He struggles against the bonds but they hold tight.

* * *

Asag snaps his head around, startled by the sight of his father being jerked backwards off his feet. Sherlock immediately clutches Asi tight in his bloody right hand and swiftly arcs his arm to the right in a graceful, backhanded sweep, the blue blade cleaving the demon's head from his body with surgical precision. Asag's head tumbles to the ground and rolls a few feet away, coming to rest face up. The dead demon's eyes and mouth are open wide in surprise. His headless corpse drops to the ground with a loud thud.

* * *

Jon snatches the Kalki Astra off the floor, tucks it into his belt and turns around to face Enki. He swipes Ares' sword in front of him in warning and Enki stays on the floor, recognising another of Hephaestus' creations that could wound him.

'Who the _fuck_ are you?' he asks Jon.

'I'm Jon Wöttson of Asgard. _This_ is the sword of Ares, Graecian God of War and', his voice is matter of fact, 'I _will_ use it to kill you if you lay a finger on Sherlock.'

'_Sherlock?_ Is _that_ what he calls himself now?' Enki sneers. 'On Nibiru, that mendicant couldn't coexist with anything that had a pulse so he banished himself to the forest where he lived alone for decades and he now has a _guardian_? Are you willing to die for _Sherlock_, Jon Wöttson?'

Jon fixes Enki with the calm gaze of a warrior accustomed to staring down opponents stronger and more imposing than he. 'He does, I am and you'd be wise to watch yourself around me.'

'I'll test your resolve later, mortal, after I have dealt with this massive thorn in my side. Don't forget for a minute that _that_', he says, jerking his chin towards the Kalki Astra secured in Jon's belt, 'is mine! And you will-', he stops short when Asag's head rolls towards him. Raising his eyes, he sees his son's body at Sherlock's feet, a copious stream of blood flowing from his headless neck and staining the floor.

'Asag!' an anguished Enki screams at the sight of his dead son. 'You murderer!' he seethes at Sherlock. His eyes turn bloodshot and his face twists into a menacing grimace as he strains against the chains and, with a thunderous roar, breaks free of them. The golden chain snaps into dozens of links that fly out from around Enki's body and jangle to the ground; they disappear one by one until only the original link is left.

The megalomaniacal God holds his right arm up and his staff flies into his open hand. He aims it again at Sherlock and shoots a bolt of energy at his unprotected form. Jon knows that Sherlock will not survive the terminal impact of the blast and rushes across the hall, diving over the last few feet between him and Sherlock to roughly shove his lover out of its path.

'Get him!' Jon shouts from where he has landed on the floor of the Temple and while Sherlock hurls Trishula at Enki's chest, he retrieves the Kalki Astra from his belt. The divine trident pierces its target and Enki totters to the ground, wounded but still alive, Trishula sticking out of his breastbone like a massive, perpendicular fork.

'Sherlock!' Jon cries, throwing the Kalki Astra to Sherlock who grabs it, attaches a Graha-Vāhan to it and dispatches it to Enlil. The two men watch the injured Enki slowly extract Trishula from his chest with a great cry and fling it aside. Enki wheezes and tries to stand but is immobilised in shocked disbelief when his feet begin to disintegrate. A blood-curdling and prolonged scream of agony rips from his throat as his body is suddenly engulfed in a bright, white whirlpool of fire which gradually incinerates him into black nothingness – his limbs burning inwards from their extremities while a gaping hole appears in the middle of his chest, burning outwards to consume his abdomen, his shoulders, his neck and finally his shrieking head. When Enki has been fully consumed, the fire collapses on itself as if sucked into a hole and disappears. The charred remains of Enki's body float to the floor of the Temple as glowing wisps; they settle in a grim memento mori until a zephyr sweeps the embers out into the open and scatters them to the winds. Immortality, it would appear, only lasts for a limited time.

Sherlock's mission has come to a successful end.

'Jon!' Sherlock turns jubilantly to the Norseman. 'Enlil must have created the Kalki Agni with the fourth device. That's the only way he could have destroyed Enki!'

A wide smile of relief softens his exhausted features but fades into a question when he sees that Jon remains prone on the floor. Jon watches as Sherlock holds his right hand over the wound on his chest, inflicted by Asag's sword, and heals it presently. When his hand lifts, Jon sees smooth blue skin with nary a trace of a scar. He smiles weakly at his former lover who blinks at Jon, seeming to only then realise that Jon wasn't supposed to be here! Sherlock wonders why he hasn't yet risen to his feet. Then his eyes stop on Jon's left shoulder and he freezes. Jon's tunic is soaked with blood but the Viking's face is calm. In his eyes Sherlock sees a man of courage, of pure heart and soul who has come to rest, in terms of both motion and repose, at his chosen destination. The brave warrior's gaze is weary and also indescribably sad but not for himself.

'Jon? Jon!' Sherlock's terrified cry echoes through the halls of the Temple. He rushes to his fallen Viking and roughly gathers him into his arms. 'Gods, Jon!' he cries again, crushing Jon in a violent embrace. 'What- wha- what's happened? You're injured. Oh Gods! Gods!'

'Sh- Shrlk', Jon gasps. Blood courses from the wound in his shoulder.

Sherlock frantically tears Jon's tunic apart and places his palm on the wound, muttering arcane words, trying and failing to stem the flow of blood.

'Jon, it's not working! I'm unable to heal you. Gods, no! I can't overcome Enki's power. No! Jon! Why did you come here? You were _not_ supposed to be here! I left you on Graecia and you were supposed to be _safe_ in Asgard. You were _supposed _to go _home_!'

'You think Asgard is home?' Jon's voice is weak but level. He is peaceful.

Sherlock's brows bunch in confusion. 'Isn't it?'

'Home is where one's journey ends and mine ends here. Right here', Jon wheezes. "_With you, in your arms" _he thinks but doesn't say.'No matter what transpired between us, Sherl-', he sucks in a pained breath through clenched teeth, 'I am a warrior and I gave you my word.' He swallows and looks away. 'I trust my companionship has remained…_expedient_ until this final moment.' His lips tremble with the hurt of uttering those words and his eyes droop as his body weakens from the loss of blood. Pain radiates from his shoulder like daggers shooting through his body. But pain is something he will endure with a smile on his lips if it means being held like this by Sherlock in his final moments, gazing up into his concerned eyes.

'Stop this, Jon! I didn't realise you were given to dramatics. This is no _final_ moment. All I know is that-', his voice breaks, 'that if you'd never met me, you wouldn't be lying like this, wounded and bleeding. You would be unharmed, Jon!'

'It doesn't matter anymore…All lives end and my time has come. As a warrior, it is an honour for me to die in combat for a cause in which I believe.'

'Don't be ridiculous, you're not going to die. You can't die from a tiny wound like this!' Sherlock feels Jon convulse in pain in his arms. His exaggerated certitude falls apart and his voice becomes a sob. He lifts Jon's hand and holds it against his cheek. 'Don't do this, don't do this!' he pleads into Jon's calloused palm. 'I can't function without you anymore. I don't know what to do, Jon!'

'You've done what you set out to do…' Jon whimpers but soldiers on through the pain. He strokes the side of Sherlock's face and tucks a long lock behind his ear. 'You saved the galaxy. You saved m- _everyone_ from a bleak eternity. See yourself for what you really are, Sherlock, a _hero_.'

'I'm no hero, Jon', Sherlock sobs and shakes his head. He holds Jon's wrist, pressing his face into his hand. 'Don't do this… You can't leave me! Have you forgotten everything we have been through together?'

'Nothing's forgotten. Nothing is ever forgotten', Jon sighs and gazes up at Sherlock.

Sherlock stares at Jon staring back at him. He waits for him to continue but Jon doesn't speak. He just looks at Sherlock, his gaze fixed. A hint of a smile softens his lips like a final breath of peace. Sherlock threads his fingers with Jon's and lowers their hands to Jon's chest, dropping his head to rest on the back of Jon's palm. He wonders distantly why Jon doesn't hold his hand.

'Jon…', Sherlock whispers. 'I need to heal you. How do I heal you? I need you to tell me what to do, Jon!'

Lifting his head, he sees Jon's eyes are still open, his gaze still fixed but vacant and he is not looking at him. Sherlock moves his head so that Jon is looking at him but when he moves again, Jon's eyes don't follow his. He waves his hand over Jon's eyes but they don't blink or move. When Sherlock shifts his arm under Jon's head, it lolls to the side, eyes still open but lifeless.

'Jon? Jon!' he shouts, lightly slapping his cheeks to rouse the insensate man. 'Jon! Wake up! Jon! You...you can't leave me like this. Jon! Stop this, Jon! Wake up! Wake up! WAKE UP!'

He waits for Jon to respond and holds his breath, his eyes wide as they dart over Jon's face, watching intently for any sign of movement, of life. There is none.

'Jon?' he calls softly, tentatively. He runs his fingers through soft, blond hair and gently pushes it off his Viking's forehead. For the first time in his life, he experiences fear and it cripples him. He speaks dolefully to the insensible man he holds in his arms. 'What is this, Jon? Are you punishing me? This is cruel, so cruel, Jon. Don't do this. This is not like you. You wouldn't punish me like this. Come back', he whispers. He sounds forsaken. 'Please come back. I'm begging you, don't leave me. What do I do? What do I do without you? You're with me even when you're not with me. I hear you in my head, Jon! You're inside me. I don't know what to do without you. Don't leave me like this, Jon. Gods! I'm nothing without you. I don't care to live without you. Please, please, what must I do for you to come back to me?' he asks, tenderly tracing the lines of his Asgardian's eyebrows, cheeks, nose, lips and jawline with his own quivering lips. A scalding tear spills down his cheek.

"_Shhh…it's fine, it's all fine. I've got you", _he hears Jon's voice in his head. _"It'll be alright. You will be alright, Sherlock. I've got you and I'll never hurt you. Sherlock…"_

'But you're hurting me _now_ by not speaking to me. Wake up! Or take me with you because I can't bear to be without you!' he cries but the Asgardian remains unresponsive.

"_Nothing's forgotten. Nothing's ever forgotten."_

The pain he thought he wouldn't survive when he saw Jon lie with Apollo seems a miniscule fraction of the torment that racks his body now. He is beginning to be destroyed from the inside but a part of him still hasn't fully comprehended that Jon is no more. Infuriated by Jon's stubborn refusal to respond, he continually shakes the still man's form, asking him to wake up, his exhortations alternating between shouting and begging and abusing and begging again. He doesn't stop. He cannot stop. His rational mind is, on this rare occasion, aligned with his emotional side and they both try to make him accept that Jon has passed but his heart rejects this information outright. It flutters hard, fighting against his brain, refusing to acknowledge the finality of the truth. When Jon still doesn't stir, Sherlock shatters completely. He collapses over Jon and presses his hot, trembling lips to the cold and unmoving lips of his lover and his shoulders shake as he sobs silently. His tortured tears flow onto Jon's inert cheeks and his body heaves over his lover's as he pulls him into his chest, his heart. He rocks back and forth, holding Jon and weeps and weeps and weeps with a bottomless grief. When his overflowing sorrow can no longer be contained in his heart, it tears out of him in a heartrending wail of desolation that shakes the very foundations of the Temple and carries clear across the vast cosmos.

'Jawwwwwwnnnnnn!'

* * *

**Notes / acknowledgements:**

The chapter title is a line from the chorus of 'The Last Mile' by Cinderella.

Jon's last words, 'Nothing's forgotten. Nothing is ever forgotten', are borrowed verbatim from the ITV series 'Robin of Sherwood'. They are spoken by Michael Praed's Robin Hood in his last episode on the series – The Greatest Enemy. It remains the only series other than BBC Sherlock where I identify so closely with an on-screen character. When Robin shoots his last arrow into the air and is (assumed to be) perforated by the arrows of the soldiers of the Sherriff of Nottingham, I died with him. For any fans of the legend of Robin Hood, this series is a must-see.

The bit about immortality lasting a limited time is based on a lyric from the song 'Dreamline' by Rush. It goes – _We are young, wandering the face of the earth, wondering what our dreams might be worth, learning that we're only immortal for a limited time._


	12. Reflections across the universe

**Reflections across the universe**

* * *

**Nibiru**

Shara has come to think of himself as Sherlock now. His name sounds like his only when spoken in Jon's voice. Sherlock. He is Sherlock, and he is alone again on Nibiru, sitting by the brook that flows behind his lodge. He thinks back to that fateful day in Roma when Jon died for him.

* * *

_'__Jaaaaawwwwwnnnnnn!' his mournful wail carried across the skies as he held the lifeless body of his lover in his arms._

_'What is this ruckus? Keep it down, please. I can hear you across the cosmos!'_

_Shara lifted his head to see Enlil's astral projection standing before him. He seemed very pleased at having foiled Enki's efforts to unseat him as head of the Annunaki._

_Shara lowered his head again to look into Jon's empty eyes. His shoulders shook as he sobbed over his dead Viking. Enlil was surprised to see the Demigod of Thunder and War, a man who had never before shown any affinity for another living being, so broken over the death of a mortal._

_'Shara', he called. 'Shara, what is going on?' Enlil was taken aback by the haunted look in Shara's eyes._

_'Jon is…Jon won't speak anymore.'_

_'Yes, Jon is dead. That is what happens to mortals. They are born, they live and then they die.'_

_Shara continued to weep silently. His plight moved even the imperturbable Enlil who recalled his grief at losing his beloved daughter, Nidaba, at the hands of his evil brother. He was grateful to the grieving man for having saved the Eight Realms and avenging his daughter's death._

_'He was very important to you.'_

_Shara shot Enlil a bitter look. 'Do you have anything more useful to add beyond stating the obvious?'_

_'I might', Enlil offered._

_'Well? What is it?'_

_'There is a way to bring him back but it will come at a cost to you. You know what that is.'_

_'I don't care about any of it! Just bring him back to life! I saved Nibiru for you. Now it's your turn to save Jon for me.'_

_'You cannot be sure that he cares for you as you do for him, Shara. He came back because he is a warrior and a man of his word.'_

_'I am all too aware that he doesn't care for me as I do for him but my feelings for him do not demand reciprocation.'_

_'I didn't realize you could be so melodramatic. Very well', Enlil sighs. 'He will live if you are ready to give up what you must to bring him back.'_

_'Take it all. I don't care about being a God. Take my godhood, take my immortality! Take my life if you must! I have no use for it without him. Just give me your word that he will live.'_

_'You have my word. He will be healed and will live out of the rest of his natural life on Asgard. And you will be mortal, Shara. You will die eventually.'_

_'How is that any different from the present? I am as good as dead now.'_

* * *

He sits alone and looks up at the blue sky, thinking about Jon and what he is doing right this minute. Is he thinking about Sherlock? Probably not. He is probably thinking about Apollo. The wound in Sherlock's heart still bleeds. He grieves and hates the feeling of helplessness and hopelessness. He sits by the brook for hours until the sun sets and the stars come out to play with the moon.

The luminous white globe shines down on the babbling waters of the brook and he sees light and shade, reflections and shadows die in the flowing water from which they are born. Sherlock sees Jon appear…and then disappear. He closes his eyes and recalls that devastating Spartan evening, in Ares' palace, when he was dropped in an ungainly heap in the chair in their bed chamber. He had immediately stirred into partial wakefulness and was vaguely aware of Jon on the bed. Alone. Jon's voice had been rough and his body had moved under the blanket. 'Shrrlck…?', he had called out in his sleep. 'Shrrlck, where are you?' He had reached out a drowsy arm to pat the mattress, searching for his lover. 'Uh luvh you, Shrrlck', he had sighed deeply and gone back to sleep, his arm stretched out over what would have been Sherlock's pillow. Then Sherlock had slipped back into unconsciousness.

_What? Stop!_

_Was Jon alone? He just said he loves me! He said it when he was not alert enough to lie so this must be the truth. This must be how he feels. He loves me. Jon looks so peaceful when he is asleep. Asleep. No! He was not asleep! He was with Apollo, wasn't he? And they were fucking each other's brains out! I saw it! What's this, then? What's happening! No! This. Is. Not. Possible… Is it? Can it be? Was Jon __**alone**__ in the bed chamber that night? What did I see? I know what I saw. Did I really see it? Think! __**It is a mistake to theorize without all the facts.**__ Am I guilty of making that mistake? Jon wasn't any different the next morning. If he were guilty, he'd have shown guilt. I would've easily sensed it in his mind because we were still connected. Fuck! Fuck! We were __**still connected**__. I must go back to that night in Sparta. I should be able to pull his memories._

Sherlock's mind is a methodically organised library of information – people, places, things, events. He knows something is amiss; he knows there is something faulty with his memories of that last night in Sparta. He folds his legs into the lotus pose and enters a meditative state, his palms joined over his chest, his chin resting on the tips of his fingers. Closing his eyes, he dissociates himself from the external world and retreats into his core; he reaches back into his memory banks and finds his way to Jon's perspective of the events in Sparta.

_Focus...yes yes show me your mind, Jon. Show me show me show me. Like that just like that open your mind open your thoughts to me show me everything show me what was hidden from me... your mind is so virtuous your heart so incorruptible your eyes shine with your innate goodness I miss you I miss you I miss you. Focus! ...let me read your mind... yes... yes..._

_Oh Gods! I'm leaving you. I'm showering you with hate and your eyes cry out to me. I hear you. I hear what you're dying to tell me but won't because all you see is hate in my eyes. I can hear you thinking Oh Gods, Jon, what have I done? What have I done?_

_I love you, I love you, Sherlock, why do you loathe me so? Did I hurt you somehow? Do you find me wanting? What is it that makes you turn from me? I haven't asked you for anything and never will. I know we are to be separated forever when your mission ends and my love for you will remain as a hole in my heart until I die. I'll never speak my love. I can't, not now when you are filled with disgust at the sight of me._

Gods, Jon, you're in agony and my blood burns with your suffering. I'm hurting you but you can't understand why. You _**genuinely **__don't know why, do you? Or are you lying to me? Your eyes show no fear, no guilt, only pain. But how can you consider yourself blameless? You lay with Apollo! Is this accepted in Asgard? Is it just my conceit that you'd only want me and be true to me? Because I know what I saw and I felt betrayed! You betrayed me, Jon! Was I not enough for you? How can you say you love me and give your body to Apollo? It must be because he has flaxen hair like you and is a pale God and I am not. Is that it? You said you found the real me __**exquisite**__. You lied, didn't you? God of the Sun! How can I compete with that? Is that why you gave yourself to him? But if you did, why the FUCK can't I find Apollo in your thoughts? Where is that bastard hiding? Why aren't you thinking about him? I must go back to the previous evening. The marriage...yes...I see you standing together and talking..._

_No, what's this? It can't be! You're talking to Apollo about **me**! Why?_

_SHERLOCK AND YOU CLEARLY BELONG TOGETHER, JON. HE IS VERY SPECIAL TO YOU, IS HE NOT?_

_Sherlock is...I have no words to quantify how much he means to me. He...he is __**everything **__to me.__  
YOU SAID YOU HAVEN'T KNOWN HIM VERY LONG. HOW CAN YOU BE SURE OF WHAT YOU FEEL FOR HIM?  
__I do. I just do. The ways of the heart defy explanation. Sometimes a lifetime isn't enough and sometimes, you know you have met that one perfect person with a just single look.__  
TRUER WORDS WERE NEVER SPOKEN, JON._

_Stop smiling, Apollo! You bastard! I'd cheerfully bash your perfect teeth in. Stop trying to inveigle him into lying with you. Don't touch Jon! You don't need to touch him to talk to him. Get your hand off his shoulder!_

_THAT IS HOW I FELT WHEN I SAW ORPHEUS' MOTHER. MY MIND WAS WIPED CLEAN OF ALL MY PREVIOUS LOVERS AND CALLIOPE BECAME MY SANCTUARY AS I CAN SEE SHERLOCK HAS BECOME YOURS._

_Previous lovers? Have you also had previous lovers, Jon? Did you love them? Oh Gods, have you loved before? Gods! The thought is killing me!_

_IT WAS HE YOU WERE SEEKING ALL YOUR LIFE, YOU JUST DIDN'T KNOW IT. HE IS THE END OF YOUR SEARCH. HE LOOKS AT YOU WITH DEVOTION, TOO._

_No...I- uh, I don't know if he does. He __**is, **__indeed,the end of my search. He is the one I have been seeking all my life but __**his**__ search will continue. I am his first and that is the extent of my ephemeral allure. Our brief association is destined to end very soon. I don't delude myself that one Jon Wöttson is enough to hold him. His is an inquiring mind and he has much to discover, faraway worlds to visit, people to meet, hearts to win and break. But his search will end one day and he will find someone who will show him the rapture he has shown me. All I can do is cherish this short time of happiness that has been given to me until we part and he goes home to Nibiru and I return to Asgard to live out the rest of my life._

_No! Gods, no! How can you think **you **__are not enough for __**me**__? You think I want something else, something more and you're ever the stoic warrior and accept it. You accept it. No! Don't…_

_Jon…  
Jon…_

_Don't accept it! Won't you fight for me, Jon? You look so sad. Why do you look sad? I hate it! I never want to see sadness in your eyes, Jon! What must I do to make you smile? Oh, you're looking at me with pride. Your eyes are so unusual, so remarkable. You show sadness and pride all at once. I can read you like a book. You're so open – does everyone see you as I do or do you only reveal your soul to me? Say it's for me, only me. You're as proud of me playing the violin as Apollo is of his son on the lyre. You're looking at me like I am yours. You're thinking of me, only me. Your mind is filled with me. I can't find anyone else in your thoughts. Oh Gods! What have I done? But I **know **what I saw. I have always depended on my senses to discern the truth and I **know** I saw you standing with Apollo and drinking mead and then lying with him that night. Wait, you are swaying. Why? Apollo is holding you up. You're letting him touch you, Jon! You hold on to his arm and his arm is around your waist like a lover's. You're leaving, Jon! Where are you going? Don't go!_

…  
_What's this...Apollo is taking you to our chamber. Is he taking advantage of your sadness, Jon? Did he first offer you his shoulder and then his body? Why have you fallen on the bed? Will the bastard join you now? Bastard! He's pulling the blanket over you. He's preparing to lie with you. Bastard! Leave him alone! Jon is not yours he's not yours he's not yours. What? What's happening? Apollo's leaving! Why's he leaving? Oh! He only helped you to the bed. Now he's helping **me** to the chair. He's leaving again. He's blameless. **You** are blameless. Gods! Oh Gods! I have made such a terrible mistake! But how is that possible? I **know **what I saw. But I'm an idiot! I am a colossal idiot. How can I believe everything my eyes see? If I am able to disguise us both, someone else could just as easily forge a similar falsehood. That's why I despise sentiment. It clouds my thinking and makes me flounder. If I weren't fucking **impaired **with sentiment I would have solved this mystery in Sparta itself but I can't stop myself from feeling like this for you. Jon…_

…  
_You have **damaged **__me by opening my mind to sentiment and now I never want to be whole again. You are my weakness yet you are also my strength. What have I done, Jon! You love me and I hurt you although you mean more to me than life itself. You died thinking I loathe you. What a terrible existence this is where I have no control over my mind. Should my heart feel like it is bleeding? I'm in pain, Jon, and you're not here to heal me. My insides are crumbling I'm bleeding because I hurt you. I'm bleeding for you I'm bleeding for you I'm wounded for you for you for you. I am powerless to heal the pain in my heart._

…

_**Fuck emotion! Focus!**__**Intellect over sentiment. Mind over heart. **__I'm behaving like a mindless blathering idiot talking to Jon in my head. No wonder I detest sentiment. It's a defect and makes me defective. Fucking focus and work out who did this. Who has the motive and the means to do this? And how would I become susceptible to it? Think! Think! Was it something that happened in the Underworld? Unlikely. You and I were together before the marriage. It __**must**__ have happened __**at **__the marriage. It wasn't Apollo. That just became clear from your memories and I was never proximal to him. Who came close to me at the marriage? Orpheus? No, he was on the dais with me but we never touched. Ares, Aphrodite? They did touch me on my arm and shoulder but now I'm really reaching. I'm pathetic. They love each other. Eurydice? Can't be, I had no contact with her at all. Am I losing my mind? Concentrate!_

_Oh... Oh... Oh...The Woman. Who was that Woman? Dark hair, blue eyes, blood-red lips. She wanted me but should've known she was wasting her time. Think. Look. She's turning and walking away because someone has called her name. Who is she? What is her name? What is her name? Follow her – she is still within earshot. Concentrate. Damn this infernal music. Orpheus, your skills on the lyre are **greatly** exaggerated, so kindly SHUT THE **FUCK** UP! Listen listen listen. Yes yes Circe. Oh! **Circe the Sorceress**. Oh Gods, she's a sorceress! I scorned the sorceress in favour of you Jon and she exacted her revenge by making me doubt you. She made me doubt you. How did she do it? Did **she **touch me? Of **course** she touched me. She kissed me! Her tongue licked mine. Some form of poison must have entered my body through my saliva. Then I kissed you and you must have been poisoned too. That's why we both felt faint. Oh Gods! I have been a fool I'm a fool I'm a fool. I hurt you I hurt you and all you did was love me. You love me you love me your heart was crying out that you love me. You said: 'Home is where one's journey ends and mine ends here. Right here.' Why "right here?" Did you know you were dying? Why? Why? What **didn't** you tell me? I know you were thinking something. Show me, Jon, show me show me. Oh oh gods...With you. In your arms. You found your home in my arms. You loved me with your last breath. You loved me till the end. Even after I cruelly abandoned you in Sparta, even though I didn't give you a chance to explain, you followed me and died for me. You said you died for a cause in which you believed. Was **I **your cause? No, Jon, nooooo! You're a fool to die for me! I'm a flawed untrusting man and you gave your life for me without a second thought. I don't deserve your trust I don't deserve your love. Gods! What have I done? Will you still consider me worthy of you? I'm coming back to you, Jon. I must I must I must win you back. Will you take me back? I left you with no explanation and yet you died for me. You **died **for me. I have no desire to live without you, Jon. _

_I love you Jon! I love you Gods, how I love you! Will you find it in your heart to love me again?_

* * *

**Asgard**

**  
**Jon blinks hard, trying to awaken and clear his blurry vision. His head feels woolly but he discerns that he is in the bed chamber in his home in Asgard. The scar on his left shoulder stings with sensation once in a while, an ugly reminder of the incident in Roma. Two weeks have passed since that day. He hasn't visited Thor or Odin or his soldiers. He stays indoors most of the time, stepping out only to procure food, most of which he leaves untouched in his kitchen. He has no appetite to eat. He has no appetite to live. He exists. He waits for something but he doesn't know what. He waits every day.

He thought he had died. He wonders what happened to Sherlock whom he hasn't seen since Roma. His last memory is of him lying in Sherlock's arms and dying. Yet he is not dead, is he? He is back in Asgard weighed down with so many unanswered questions. His mind is a tangled web of confusion - memories and emotions and accusations and protests of innocence are knotted in his head but he cannot unravel them. He feels his head will explode if he doesn't purge himself of these chaotic memories. This is torture and it needs an outlet. He needs to be cleansed. So he writes. He chronicles his experiences of the past few weeks intending to burn the book when he has finally healed from this episode.

He recounts his adventures with Sherlock, his once-in-a-lifetime experiences. In an attempt to distance himself from the events of the past month, he writes from the perspectives of a fictitious Viking warrior and a traveler from another planet.

He names the first chapter "Somebody's watching me" wherein he describes how the Viking first encountered Sherlock, how startled he was by his cold eyes and how he brought to mind the icy fjords of northern Asgard. He writes about their physical combat in the arena in the Armoury and how the first brush against Sherlock's body threw the Viking off and resulted in his defeat, a loss he is happy to suffer all his life.

He briefly describes the Asgardian's first time with Sherlock in the chapter "The Viking and the Virgin", finding his command of language woefully inadequate to explain his desperate need for Sherlock. How can anyone understand that lying with Sherlock that first time rekindled his desire to live and gave him a purpose? Sherlock is beautiful, so beautiful, so fascinating. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.

Realising he could write an entire book on Sherlock, he quickly moves on to how Sherlock reveals his identity in "Who are you?" He explains how the Asgardian's heart melted at the sight of Sherlock's fragile form lying naked and freezing in the snow, how captivated the Viking was by Sherlock's revelations and how eager he was to see those truths firsthand.

"The Twilight of the Gods" portrays how bravely Sherlock helped save Asgard and avert Ragnarök and ends with his short-lived heartbreak at what he thought would be the last time the Viking would see Sherlock. "Riddle me this" begins with Sherlock's near-immediate return and their ensuing cosmic jaunt to land in Aegyptus for an encounter with the annoying and oddly amorous Sphinx.

"The answer lies in the stars" communicates his utter fascination at how expertly Sherlock marries astronomy with mathematics and geometry to determine the location of the Kalki Astra in Giza. He makes a passing mention of his own opportune discovery that triggered the entire line of investigation, preferring to concentrate his eloquence on Sherlock's magnificence.

He thinks he saw something beyond mere affection in Sherlock's eyes and reveals his feelings in "The answer lies in my eyes" when he claims Sherlock for the first time.

The next chapter, "Rescue Me", takes the two adventurers to the city of Sparta on Graecia and relates the events surrounding the rescue of Aphrodite from the clutches of Hades and her reunion with her chosen beloved, Ares.

"Come together" begins with the marriage of Ares and Aphrodite. . The Viking is happy. He is fulfilled. He is content to gaze at Sherlock for the rest of his days. But then it all goes horribly wrong. His perfect world falls apart. Sherlock thinks he has been wearing a mask with him and concealing his true self but he doesn't know what mask Sherlock meant. This exchange marked the beginning of the end. He renames the chapter "Come together" "The masks we wear".

Sherlock leaves him behind in Sparta and travels to Italia alone but the Viking is sick with worry about Sherlock battling gods and monsters on his own. He is a warrior who has given his word to a friend. He writes of the battle with Enki and Asag and ends with his own final moments in Sherlock's arms. He has walked his last mile and is ready to rest. He thinks "I walk the last mile before I sleep" is an appropriate chapter title. Death is, after all, a permanent kind of sleep.

The sun has set. He sighs deeply and places his feather quill on the table. He has come to the present moment. He is alive, not dead. His words have dried up. There is nothing more to write, nothing more to say. He concludes his book with a personal note about the singular man who took him on this marvelous journey.

* * *

_IN CONCLUSION_

_Over the course of two weeks, I had the opportunity to accompany a traveler from another world on his quest to save the Eight Realms. I had the privilege of meeting a hero._

_This hero showed me worlds I could never have imagined; he showed me life beyond the grime, blood and sweat of the battlefield. He taught me, a battle-hardened warrior, to dream again; he taught me to love. I learned that there is greater honour in dying for love than in dying on the battlefield for some nameless political cause. Love became my cause. HE became the cause for which I now live and will gladly die._

_Over those two weeks, I combated a stranger and made a friend. The traveler took me on the greatest adventures of my life. I fell in love. Then my heart died when I learned that my sentiments were not shared. Finally, I died. Or thought I did. Yet there is not one moment of this incredible odyssey that I would change. These are my most treasured memories and I shall carry them with me until my dying breath._

_If I were granted but one wish, it would be to see the traveler again and hear from his own lips of the egregious lapse I committed that caused his feelings for me to sour into hate. In my own conscience, I am unaware of having erred in a way that merited his loathing. _

_Perhaps it was presumptuous of me, a mortal, to expect to win and hold the heart of a God. Perhaps I mistook his overtures for affection when he was simply reacting to his first experience with pleasant social contact. Perhaps this… Perhaps that…. I fear this is a question that shall forever remain unanswered and one that I shall take to my grave. _

_Jon Wöttson_

* * *

He calls his book

**The Eight Realms**

**The chronicles of Jon Wöttson**

He leaves his journal on his table and turns to look out of the window, searching for a small green dot in the night sky. He asks for one miracle, just one miracle. Then he sinks into the welcoming arms of sleep.


	13. Second chances

**Chapter Summary: **The beginning of the end...the end being 'happily ever after'

**Notes: **Not beta'd so let me know if there are any typos and I'll fix them.

* * *

**Second Chances**

_I love you_, Jon tells an illusory Sherlock. _I always will. As long as I live and breathe._

A month has passed since Jon found himself alive in Asgard. His days seem interminable. Sleep brings relief. Sleep lets him escape his memories. The wakeful state is torture. He draws open the curtains in his bedchamber and looks out of the window. He imagines he sees a tall man with blue skin and long dark hair standing at the end of the street. He rubs his blurry eyes and looks again. The apparition is no longer there. _Get a grip, Wöttson_, he tells himself.

Something catches his eye when he looks down at the table beside his bed; a small piece of paper peeks out from his journal. Holding that paper, he flips the book open and it lands on the last page, on his personal concluding note about Sherlock. He reads a short hand-written note in a clear, broad script. It is not his handwriting.

"IT IS A MISTAKE TO THEORIZE WITHOUT ALL THE FACTS."

It sounds like something Sherlock would say, he thinks with a rueful smile. He must have, in a fugue state, recalled something Sherlock had said to him and applied it to his current woes. _"No, Jon! It is a mistake to theorize without all the facts!"_ he can imagine his former lover chiding him while in the throes of a deductive session. But it doesn't matter. Very few things matter to him anymore. Sighing, he looks around his room – used clothes and uneaten comestibles lie strewn around. He has been bathing every day and is running out of clean clothes. He stops in shock when he catches his reflection in the mirror. Despondent eyes look back at him from a vaguely familiar face framed by hair that falls to his shoulders and a six-day beard.

This will not do. Jon Wöttson may be damaged but he is, above all else, a warrior. He reluctantly decides it is time he shook off his melancholy and returned to the world around him.

When he has bathed, shaved and dressed he steps out of his home, feeling a little more like the Jon Wöttson of old. The sun beats down on his face and arms, its palliative rays washing over him and he thinks he might be able to heal after all. Closing his eyes, he drops his head back, enjoying the stretch in his neck, feeling his skin drink in the warmth. The psychic breath he had been holding in leaves him in a healing exhale and he feels the knot in his spirit loosen and the gray despair in his soul begin to dispel in the golden light. Squaring his shoulders, he walks purposefully in the direction of Valhalla. Odin and Thor will be busy in rebuilding Valhalla and he feels he should offer his help. Halfway there, he turns around and heads to the archery range in the woods.

A solider attends in the supply tent and hands him an unstrung longbow and a quiver of arrows. It is a short distance to the range where a series of targets stands ninety metres from the shooting line. Jon walks to the far end of the range and pauses, resting his chin on his fist which is curled around the top of the bow. Peering at the faraway concentric circles on the first target, he wonders if the past month has diminished his skills as a marksman. He decides that doesn't matter either.

Exhaling loudly through his mouth, he strings his bow and pulls an arrow from his quiver. Pointing the bow downwards, he nocks the arrow, casually swings the bow up to shoulder height and releases the shaft. His keen ears hear the whoosh of the shaft speeding through the air end in a dull thud when the arrowhead pierces the target exactly in the centre. Nocking another arrow, he strolls over to the next target and shoots, once more hitting the centre. He walks, nocks and shoots at the third target. And once more at the fourth and then, as an afterthought, the fifth, his last shot almost disdainfully relaxed. Each time, he hits the target dead in the centre.

He returns to the supply tent, savouring the small thrill of satisfaction that courses through him and looks up at the sky, wondering where, in that clear blue canopy, the small green dot he watches every night hides. _"Do you see this? Do you see me? Do you think of me?"_ he silently asks the heavens. His musings are interrupted by the distant sound of metal piercing wood. Running out to identify the source of the sound, he is stunned to see a tall figure in a hood shooting at his arrows, piercing and splitting them from nock to tip but with precisely enough force for the interceding arrows to remain embedded the arrowheads of Jon's shafts which now gape in a vee. Four of Jon's arrows are split along their length. The hooded figure pauses before the farthest target and turns to look at Jon. His face is obscured and all Jon can discern is a shadowed silhouette under a hood. The man returns his gaze to the target, draws his arrow and shoots. A second later, Jon's fifth arrow obligingly opens for the shaft from the stranger's bow.

_It can't be. It can't be! Could it be? Is he here? Gods, is he here?_

'Who are you?! Stop!' Jon shouts and begins to run towards the man.

The hooded figure runs into the woods with Jon in pursuit. By the time Jon enters the woods, the stranger is nowhere to be found. A twig breaks in the distance and Jon snaps his head to his left – the man in the hood is running towards a log cabin in the distance. Jon chases after him and slows to a stop in front of the cabin. He stares at the door, his heart hammering in his chest. His breath comes in hot, fevered pants, more from anticipatory terror at the prospect of opening that door than the short burst of exertion. He knocks but there is no answer. Gingerly, he pushes the door open.

The stranger stands with his back to Jon, looking out of his window at the stream that flows behind the cabin. His bow is strung diagonally across his torso.

'Turn around', Jon commands and the man obeys.

'Take your hood off', Jon commands and the man obeys.

Jon's breath leaves him in a gasp because he is looking, once again, into pools of gray ice set in an exquisite blue face.

* * *

_He came back. He is here. Sherlock is here. He came back. Has he come back to me? _Jon's perplexed mind makes him catatonic.

The two men face each other in silence. Time crawls by as questions, accusations, explanations and confessions flow unspoken over the electric visual connection between them to collide in the middle of the room and tumble to the floor soundlessly.

'Won't- won't you…say something?' Sherlock's halting words reveal his own trepidation.

It is a long time before Jon answers. 'I don't know what to say to you', he says simply.

Sherlock shuffles his feet nervously and worries his lower lip.

'How about _"Who are you and why are you following me?"_ I am sure I have a small knife somewhere that you could hold to my throat', he attempts.

Jon's lips twitch in a fleeting and very sad smile.

'Why are you here and not on Nibiru?'

'Nibiru holds nothing for me anymore. When I arrived here, I offered Odin my help in rebuilding Valhalla.'

'After which you will return to Nibiru?'

'I may', Sherlock shrugs. 'I may not, if I have a reason to stay', he adds, looking right at Jon, the unmistakable significance of his words hovering between them.

Jon nods imperceptibly and looks around the room. His throat has choked painfully and swallowing doesn't help.

'I admitted I was following you', Sherlock blurts, desperate to bridge the gaping and growing chasm of mistrust between them.

'Yet you left me in Sparta', Jon counters, his voice toneless with accusation.

'I made a mistake. I was wrong.'

Jon is unmoved, so Sherlock continues. 'I thought you had…that you didn't want me.'

'What!' Jon almost shouts but then levels his gaze. He settles his features into an ostensibly unperturbed expression but his insides are collapsing when he asks, incredulously, 'Why would you think that?'

'It's what I saw, Jon', Sherlock's words are pained. He relives the anguish of watching Jon and Apollo having sex. 'Or thought I did at the time', he amends.

'Explain', Jon's voice is hard.

'The night of the marriage of Ares and Aphrodite, I saw you leave the hall with Apollo. I followed you to our- the bedchamber and saw you and him- uh…'

'What? What did you see or _think_ you were seeing?' Jon demands.

'You and he were…naked and writhing on the bed. He was inside you and you were enjoying it and it was hateful! But I was wrong!'

'How- how did you see something that _never_ happened?' Jon wonders softly. 'And why would you believe that I would…how _despicable_ do you think I am, Sherlock?'

_You said my name. Oh Gods, Jon, say my name. Say it again. How I have longed to hear my name on your lips!  
_  
'Sherlock!' Jon snaps. 'Answer me!'

'That is what I saw, Jon, and I believed it at the time! I thought I meant nothing to you. Gods and mortals would want to be with you. You are _extraordinary_, Jon.' Sherlock looks down at his feet. 'I hated you. I never knew hate before that moment and it was an ugly feeling. Being close to you made it worse and I had to get away.'

'I was _alone_ that night. I would never- how _could_ I?' he asks softly and looks away, unable to hold Sherlock's gaze.

'I know that now, Jon, and I _am_ sorry! I didn't know then that Circe had cast a spell on me.'

'Circe, the sorceress?'

'Yes!'

'How do you know all this?'

'I thought back to that night. I had to meditate very hard but I was able to go back into our memories and saw that I fell to the ground but was helped up to the chair by a man. I roused a little and heard you… calling to me. In that brief moment of lucidity, I was able to see that you were alone in the bed and also discern that the man holding me up was Apollo. I could see him help you to the bed, help me to the chair and then leave. Clearly I had hallucinated that you lay with him. I then started to think of my body's apathy. I was exhibiting signs of intoxication yet I was certain I had imbibed no intoxicants. The only things with which my lips had come in contact were Circe's lips and-'

'You kissed Circe?' Jon interrupts in a voice thin with distress.

'She kissed me but I rejected her', Sherlock says truthfully, watching Jon's face betray the conflict in his heart. 'Jon…Jon! Look at me. Her kiss meant nothing, you must believe me! She repulsed me and I pushed her away. Please…look at me!'

'I can't-'

'No, Jon! Stop thinking because whatever you're thinking is not the truth! It became obvious that she had poisoned me with her kiss and I inadvertently poisoned you when I kissed you. We both felt faint and she must have cast a spell on me to make me imagine you with Apollo.'

Jon is silent. His habitual admiration for Sherlock's deductive reasoning comes flooding back but is washed away again by hurt.

'I was initially at a disadvantage because of Circe's poison and later impaired by sentiment – a chemical defect that diminished my ability for logical positing.'

'Sentiment?'

'For you. Sentiment for you, Jon!'

'Why are you telling me this now?'

'I was guilty of theorizing without all the facts. Also, I read the last page in your journal and heard you ask for a miracle, looking up at Nibiru.'

'So you left me that note' Jon states with narrowed eyes.

'I did. You wrote that your one wish would be to hear from my own lips what egregious lapse you committed. So I'm telling you now. I thought I saw you lying with Apollo.'

'And you chose _that_ moment to stop thinking and questioning? You didn't think to _demand_ an explanation of me after everything that had happened between us?!'

'Forgive me, Jon! I was running out of time with Enki, I thought you didn't care for me anymore. I truly didn't know how to react. So I did the only thing that occurred to me.'

'You ran', Jon hisses. 'You ran away from me.'

'I ran away from you', he concedes. _  
_  
He stops speaking and waits for Jon to respond. To tell him that he will always hold him and never hurt him. He waits and waits. Jon's set features and stony silence slowly break him. With a sinking feeling, he accepts he is not forgiven. No matter what Jon may have felt for him in the past, he has now cast Sherlock out of his heart. Sherlock has hurt him and his punishment is to be denied the happiness of living with Jon and loving him. But a life without Jon is tantamount to death. He cannot let Jon go. He clears his throat and draws his frame up to its full height.

'Notwithstanding how things ended in Sparta, we made a good team and had good adventures', Sherlock bites out with unnatural calmness through teeth clenched with despair. 'You are now possessed of all the facts. Our paths will likely cross in Valhalla. So I was hoping we could put these events behind us and…renew our association. Just a cordial association', he proposes feebly. 'I have no expectations beyond that.'

'Cordial association?' Jon asks bitterly. 'You mean we should be _friends_?'

'I- I suppose that is what I mean…Yes, friends. Just friends. It will help us avoid any awkwardness if we should happen to meet in the course of work.'

The hope in Jon's heart dies at the words _"just friends"_.

'No- no…' he shakes his head, looking at his feet.

'No?' Sherlock asks in a small voice.

'I'm not sure I can be your friend, Sherlock. I cannot be your "cordial associate".'

'Why?'

'You enjoy riddles, don't you? I'm sure you'll work that one out eventually.'

'No, Jon', Sherlock is weary. 'I've had my fill of riddles. You clearly have not forgiven me for my lapse. If, after knowing all the facts, you still do not deem my mistake deserving of clemency, it must indeed be unforgivable.'

Jon looks away, his heart breaking. _Don't you see? I cannot be your friend because I love you! I will never be able to look at you without wanting to throw my arms around you and hold you against my heart. You see everything, don't you? How can you not see this?_

'I- uh…Sherlock…', he looks at the ruined man standing before him, awaiting judgment. 'I forgive you… of course I forgive you…you based your actions on the facts available to you at the time.'

'I did', Sherlock looks up hopefully.

'But I cannot be your friend. I am sorry.'

Sherlock's eyes close. He will not let Jon see him shatter. He takes a deep breath. 'In that case, I will leave Asgard once Valhalla has been rebuilt. Until that time, I shall endeavour to stay out of your way. Thank you for giving me a chance to explain. Goodbye, Jon.'

Sherlock turns his back to Jon and looks out of the window. He hears the door open and close. He is alone once more. Solitude is what he has. Solitude is _all_ he has.

* * *

Three days pass before Jon steps out of his home again. This time he goes to the Armoury. A soldier is practicing his moves with an axe and a shield. Picking up an axe and shield, he joins the soldier for a friendly round of sparring. A half hour later, sweat rolls down his body while his mind fills with thoughts of Sherlock and their last exchange. He pulls off his tunic and drops it on the ground.

_Sherlock is in Asgard. He wants to be a part of my life again, but as a friend._ _"Just friends", he had said. Will I be able to strangle the love in my heart and be just a friend to Sherlock when he is everything I could ever want in a partner? I want to spend the rest of my life with him and he wants to be "just friends". Gods!_

Growling in anguish, he spins around and strikes at the solider, his blows picking up in speed and ferocity as he uses his axe to cut through the pernicious confusion that corrodes him from the inside.

_How do I suppress the deepest feelings I have ever had for another living person and call it friendship? How do I perpetuate that falsehood? I cannot pretend that he is just a friend. I cannot endure the slow death of seeing him every day, knowing he is never to be mine. Will I be able to survive the inevitable pain of seeing him fall in love with someone else? I always knew he could never be mine yet now that he is here on Asgard, the thought of him with someone else destroys me. It was a hollow bravery that I showed Apollo.  
_  
The capricious weather changes unexpectedly and it begins to snow, the chilly white powder dissolving on contact with Jon's hot skin. At some point in their session, he has begun to see his opponent as the physical manifestation of his mental turmoil and continues to smite at the soldier, again and again and again. The soldier holds up his shield to block Jon's axe but it splinters from the force of Jon's strike, fuelled by his anguish. When the soldier cedes the fight and begs for a respite, shouting to be heard over the clamour in Jon's mind, the Viking steps back in horror.

'Forgive me. I am not sure what came over me. Forgive me', he mutters and drops his axe and shield to the ground. Bending down, he grabs his tunic and hurriedly pulls it on. He rushes out of the Armoury, wrapping his arms around himself as the wet cold seeps into his heated skin.

The streets are deserted but for one lone man who stands outside the Armoury, looking at Jon. Sherlock. He is dressed in just his tunic and trousers and boots, shaking in the cold. Jon wonders how long he has been standing there. He takes a few steps towards him, stops and then walks away in the opposite direction. Ten steps later, he stops again and turns around. Sherlock is still standing there but his arms have dropped to his side and his head is lowered in resignation. Snowflakes dust his dark hair which hangs in long, damp clumps in front of his face like a thick veil. Jon shakes his head and walks back to him.

'You said you would leave me alone.'

Sherlock raises his eyes to look at Jon. His sad gaze betrays an edge of defeat.

'I did…I did…Forgive me.'

Jon knows he is not apologizing for following him.

'How long have you been standing here? You're trembling. What were you thinking stepping out in the cold like this without a coat?'

Jon sees in the light that his face is hollowed, dark circles line his beautiful eyes and he has a haunted look. This is no demigod standing before him – this is a dispirited, fragile and very human man. Concern for Sherlock overwhelms him; it appears to be Jon's natural reaction to him.

Sherlock silently turns around to walk away when warm fingers curl around his wrist.

'When was the last time you ate?'

Sherlock stares at the fingers holding his wrist. Jon drops his hand.

'You're coming home with me. You're going to eat something, get some rest and then you can go where you want. Come on', he says and starts off in the direction of his home.

Sherlock follows him in obedient silence, staring at the wrist that had just been touched by Jon. He imagines he can see Jon's fingers branded on his skin. When they reach his home, Jon fires up the hearth and hands Sherlock a towel to dry himself. He pulls out a tunic and a fresh pair of trousers from the cupboard.

'Here, dry yourself, change your clothes and get yourself warmed up. I'll make some stew for you.'

Sherlock inwardly liquefies. His chest heaves with the emotion of having Jon care for him. He sits in an armchair, dry and warm in a fresh set of clothes – Jon's clothes. The fabric feels like Jon on his skin. It feels glorious.

'When did you last eat?'

'Probably a week ago', Sherlock's voice is rough from disuse. Or perhaps it is sentiment that chokes him. 'I don't know…it doesn't matter.'

'It matters! What are you doing to yourself? You achieve nothing by starving yourself. Now eat this.'

'I'm not hungry.'

'And I don't care. Eat.'

Jon stands before the armchair and holds out a bowl of stew and a small plate with a piece of bread.

Sherlock takes the bowl and plate and places them on the small table beside his chair. Jon steps back but Sherlock grasps his hands and pulls them to his lips. He throws his arms around Jon's hips and presses his face into his belly.

'Jon, Jon…please…'

'Sherlock…'

Sherlock makes a small, muffled sound against his hip that wounds Jon. He is powerless to deny Sherlock anything.

'Alright, Sherlock…I'll try to be your friend. It's difficult for me to do this. _Very_ difficult, do you understand?'

Sherlock's whimper is louder this time and his arms tighten around Jon. Jon's hand hovers over Sherlock's head and he pulls it away before he succumbs to the yearning in his heart.

'Give me your sorrows, Jon, and I'll suffer for you. Give me your heart and I'll carry it inside me as long as I live', his hot breath gusts over Jon's skin through the thin fabric of his tunic.

_What are you saying, Sherlock?! Do you realise what your words mean?  
_  
'Is that what _friends_ do for each other?' Jon's voice shakes. His hands are clenched into fists at his side because if he opens them, he will not be able to keep from pulling Sherlock into his arms.

'I don't know! I don't know or _care_ what friends do for each other but it is what I want to do for _you_! I came here for _you_. Rebuilding Valhalla is just a means to pass the time.'

Sherlock loosens his hold on Jon and sees his white-knuckled fists. Looking up, he sees Jon's eyes glisten with the evidence of his emotions and thinks he has committed another transgression. He drops his arms, releasing Jon and hurriedly stands up.

'I'm sorry, Jon. I spoke my truth but it seems my words are, unsurprisingly, objectionable to you. Please forgive me. I shan't bother you again.'

He sees Jon's hard expression thaw into a watery smile and thinks he is laughing at him. 'It's laughable, I know. I said the same thing three days ago but this time I will keep my word.'

Sherlock blinks and when his eyes open, his lashes are wet.

'Before I leave, I want you to know how- how _deeply_ I regret the pain I have caused you. It may provide some reparation to know that I also suffer.'

Jon notes the use of the present tense.

'My feelings are not contingent on your reciprocation. You are and will remain the most important person in my life but I must learn to live without your- without you. I find myself reacquainted with my old companion, solitude', he says with a bitter laugh.

'You idiot!'

Sherlock nods in full agreement, feeling like a right idiot. He takes a stumbling step towards the door. He is devastated. Jon cannot decide whether to laugh with joy or cry with relief. All he knows is that he cannot allow Sherlock to leave. He feels his hurt dissolving but a final wish remains. He can see Sherlock's eyes crying out his love and determines to get him to admit it and say the words.

'I said I'll try to be your friend, Sherlock.'

'I don't want to be your friend', Sherlock sounds petulant.

'I know', Jon nods, a tender smile reaching his eyes. 'Still, you don't have to leave just yet. Eat something. Please. You're a wraith.'

'Do you care?'

'Apparently I do.'

Sherlock sits and eats the stew with bread in silence. He cares little for food but craves any time Jon will agree to spend with him. When he is finished, he places the plate and bowl on the table and rises to his feet.

'So where will you live?' Jon asks suddenly.

Sherlock lifts his head in surprise. The change in subject is most unexpected. Jon appears to have completely ignored the import of their earlier exchange and chosen a topic of the utmost banality. Perhaps this is how friends converse. Dull, but he will do it for Jon.

'I like the cabin in the forest. There's a small waterfall behind that leads to a little brook. Odin wants me to help his architects redesign Valhalla. The cabin is a very tranquil place and where I intend to do most of my planning and designing. I lived in a similar cabin on Nibiru.'

'But the forest is quite far from Valhalla.'

'It is.'

'You might need to locate a residence closer to Valhalla for regular discussions with Odin and his architects.'

'Ye-es', Sherlock agrees, unsure of where Jon is leading him but certain that he is being led. He is happy to follow Jon anywhere. 'I have begun a search for suitable accommodation closer to Valhalla.'

'So…', Jon asks, staring at the floor, 'what is your idea of suitable accommodation?'

Sherlock realises that Jon is stalling. He doesn't meet his eyes but clearly doesn't want him to leave just yet. Hope surges in his chest.

'Most acceptable residences come with two bedchambers. I might have to share living space with another person.'

'You? Sharing a roof with a normal Asgardian?' Jon chuckles the easy, natural laugh of a man in the company of a dear friend. 'Now that's something I _have_ to see', he grins mischievously.

Warmth blooms in Sherlock's heart at Jon's familiar manner. 'Don't be ridiculous', he counters with a nervous laugh of his own. 'My housemate won't be a _normal_ Asgardian. He will be a warrior.'

They stop and look at each other. They know that they are standing on the edge of a very significant moment.

'A warrior?' Jon asks tentatively, his grin disappearing.

'An Asgardian warrior with blue eyes and golden hair', Sherlock elaborates, his steely gray eyes boring in Jon's uneasy blue. 'He will have the courage of a lion, the indomitable spirit of a wild stallion, the steady, compassionate heart of a friend… and a very short temper', he adds, heartened to see Jon's eyes soften.

'And?'

'He will be the only man to whom I lost body and soul and would willingly lose for the rest of my days. Because losing to him is my triumph. He will be my teacher, my companion, the air in my lungs, the pulse in my heart, the blood in my veins. And I will be whatever he wants me to be.'

Joy and want and devotion fill Jon's heart. Love fills Jon's heart.

'Good luck finding this man', he teases.

'I've found him and he knows he's found.'

'Does he, now?' Jon looks up at him with the hint of a smile. Sherlock swallows hard. He takes a chance. He swallows again.

'Your longhouse is very conveniently located.'

'It is, indeed.'

'It also has a second bedchamber.'

Jon shakes his head. 'That is a terribly unsubtle and byzantine way of suggesting that you might live here, Sherlock. Just get to it.'

'I _was_ getting to it! I have said before that I don't know how to do normal conversation. I don't know how to do _this_', his hands move in wide circles in the space between them, fingers splayed in frustration. 'You have to be patient with me!'

'Really, Sherlock? When have I _not_ been patient with you? I couldn't live with you for a day if I weren't patient with you!'

They are quiet for a full minute and glare at each other, two grouchy men who love each other more than they do their own lives but are too terrified to admit that they need each other. Sherlock reluctantly accepts that Jon can carry his anger for a very long time and decides to extend the olive branch.

'So yes...I am asking you if I might live in this house, with you. If you would not mind my company day after day…after day.'

Jon doesn't say anything.

'After all, you have two bedchambers.' Sherlock will not give up, not now.

'I do.'

'If...uh...if we'll need two bedchambers', he suggests bravely.

'I don't know, Sherlock. Do you think we will need two bedchambers?' Jon cocks an eyebrow.

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Because I want to sleep in your bedchamber.'

'It doesn't have room for a second bed.'

'It doesn't need one.'

'I see. So you wish to sleep in my bed?'

'Yes.'

'Why should I let you sleep in my bed?'

'Because uh…because I love you. I love you, Jon.'

When Jon doesn't respond, Sherlock panics and quickly backtracks. 'Forgive my presumption. I suppose we do need two bedchambers.'

Jon just watches his beautiful blue lover. He knows he's torturing Sherlock and he's enjoying it just a little bit but Jon Wöttson is not a cruel man. Sherlock stands still, a picture of abject vulnerability.

Jon melts and shakes his head. 'Idiot', he mutters and turns around to walk towards the door.

Sherlock looks mortified, fearing that he is being dismissed…until Jon speaks.

'Sherlock… Sherlock', he says softly, relishing the feeling of his love's name rolling off his tongue. 'I'd like to kiss the man who will move into my home, if he doesn't mind very much', his eyes shine with love as he walks towards him.

_Oh. He wants to kiss me. Jon wants to kiss me. Jon. Jon. Jon.  
_  
'He doesn't mind at all.' Sherlock murmurs. This has been a day for taking chances, so he takes one more risk. 'But he would prefer if you kissed the man you love.'

'And where might I find the man I love? I would want _him_ in my bedchamber and my bed.'

Sherlock looks crushed.

Jon surrenders. 'Sherlock, Sherlock…forgive me, my dearest. I have been cruel to you. You're brilliant and beautiful and absolutely insane', his eyes crease with tenderness. 'There is _no one_ else I want in my bedchamber, in my bed and in my heart for as long as I live. My body, my heart, my _life_ is yours if you want it, my beloved.'

Sherlock stares at Jon, unsure of what has just happened. Jon tries to clarify.

'I'd like to kiss the man I _love_, if he-' Jon begins to say but his words are cut off by Sherlock's lips on his.

Sherlock pulls back, searching Jon's eyes desperate for signs that he has made a mistake by kissing him. He only sees love. Jon's blue eyes are like a placid sea of love and Sherlock wants to drown in the waters of his adoration.

'Say it', he pleads. 'Please!'

'I love you.'

'Again. Say it, say my name. Don't torture me. Say it. Say it!'

'I love you, Sherlock. I love you. I love you! Only you.'

A guttural moan rips from his lover's throat and then Sherlock is mumbling wetly against his lips. He understands Sherlock is confessing his love but is unable to tear himself away from Jon long enough to be coherent in his admissions. Jon pulls him in tight and kisses back with the unrestrained desperation of a drowning man who has been granted the breath of life.

'I thought you were asking me to leave', Sherlock's eyes are wet.

'One of us has to be the sensible one and lock the door. After all, night has fallen and I thought you might want to avail of your new living arrangements without further ado. Also…I didn't want anyone interrupting what is going to be a long and _active_ night.'

Jon is pulled into a crushing embrace and buries his lips in Sherlock's neck to whisper 'For the record, I'm _never_ letting you leave again. Where you go, I go. You're stuck with me now.'

'Jon, Jon, I love you!' Sherlock murmurs into Jon's hair, his body going limp with relief. 'My Jon. I love you. I love you.'

* * *

**Notes**: To make up for all that angst and death and heartbreak, I wanted to start and end the chapter with the words 'I love you', spoken by each of them.


	14. Celestial Terrestrial Commuters

**Summary:** Astral sex... Penultimate chapter. Therefore, so much love (making)...

**Notes:** Not beta'd so let me know if there are any errors and I'll fix them. This chapter goes out to dear PickyPicky who, when I mentioned astral beings during initial discussions on this story, pretty much read my mind about introducing astral sex. IMO, astral sex is a logical (and necessary) extension of the concept :) Hope this pleases you, my friend!

* * *

**Celestial terrestrial commuters**

The cool night breeze and the quiet babble of the brook that flows behind Sherlock's cabin in the woods beckon to the lovers; they hold hands and stroll to the wet banks. A short waterfall pours into the rivulet, the refreshing spray shimmering like a crystalline bouquet in the moonlight. Jon pulls Sherlock's face down to his to kiss him gently and tugs at his tunic. He takes his own clothes off, dropping them on the grass, watching Sherlock undress and step into the water, naked. Sherlock's muscles skulk and ripple along his lean limbs under his thin skin in the moonlight as he runs his hands through his long hair which begins into clump into heavy, wet locks. His skin moistens from the gently rushing water and Jon feels his cock swell in response. Dark desire coils low in his belly. His throat feels full, his heart feels full. His entire self is gravid with love for Sherlock, a love that burns him sweetly and then heals him and then burns him again and heals.

It is a month since Sherlock returned to Jon. It is a month since Jon returned to the land of the living. He aches with want but stops at the edge of the water to stare at his lover's splendid naked form, perversely enjoying the self-inflicted exquisite torture of watching Sherlock from a distance, knowing that he can touch him, kiss him and _possess_ him whenever he wishes. Sherlock turns around and holds out a hand to him.

'Come', he hears that impossibly alluring voice say to him and like a man bewitched, he obeys. He is the moth to the flame that is Sherlock. He steps into the water and walks towards his lover, wanting nothing more than to immolate himself in the blaze of passion that laps around his body. These fires show no sign of abating. They only burn brighter with each passing day. Jon never believed in _degrees_ of love – he had always thought that he would either love someone or not, that love was the ultimate expression of affection. Yet with every day he spends with Sherlock, he finds himself more in love with his blue demigod.

Coolth spreads from his feet throughout his body as the gentle spray splashes over him, stimulating the minute nerve endings under his skin. He takes Sherlock's offered hand to join him under the short cataract and sighs when he touches his lover's chiseled chest. Sherlock turns into the cascade, his back to Jon and closes his eyes as the water runs down his naked body. Overcome with desire, Jon presses his open mouth to the smooth skin on Sherlock's back, between his shoulder blades, sliding his arms around his lover and running his palms over Sherlock's chest and flat belly. When he presses into Sherlock's back, his lover spreads his legs a little and places his hands flat against the rock face behind the veil of falling water to compensate for the pressure from Jon's body. Jon's hips move a fraction and his swollen cock slips upwards into Sherlock's cleft, pushing it open. He instinctively ruts against his lover's body. A shivering gasp runs through Sherlock's taut body and his chin falls to his chest.

'I love you', Jon whispers into Sherlock's wet skin, parting his lips to drink the water that flows down his lover's back. He wants to drink Sherlock in. A wave of hunger washes over him and he wraps himself tighter around Sherlock and moves his hips slowly, feeling the tip of his wet cock slide between Sherlock's arse cheeks, up and down, up and down, the tip catching on the furled hole and then slipping past it. Sherlock pushes against his hips and Jon pulls a hand back to grasp his cock and press it directly against Sherlock's hole. The next time Sherlock's hips press back against him, the tip of his cock breaches the small folds of skin covering his rim. Sherlock's skin feels inflamed and he pushes harder but Jon releases him and steps away. He knows what they both want but this is not _how_ Jon wants it.

Sherlock growls at the cessation of contact and twists his body around to implore Jon. 'Take me, Jon', he breathes, watching Jon through hooded eyes. 'Take me!'

'I will, Sherlock. I want more than anything else to take you. But I don't want to hurry through it. I want to hear every delicious sound you make, I want to taste every inch of your beautiful body. I want to make love to you and show you how much I love you', he whispers and embraces Sherlock. 'I want to _celebrate_ you. Gods, Sherlock, how I love you!'

'Then do it! Make love to me…Show me how you love me…' Sherlock breathes into Jon's hair and runs his hands down his back to cup his arse, thrilled by Jon's gasp against his wet skin. A shuddering cry escapes his own lips when he feels insistent hands grasp his arse cheeks and hold them apart, making way for curious fingers to reach into his cleft. His focus narrows to a pinprick, to the point where his hole is being pressed by a blunt finger and tantalized in slow, agonizing circular caresses. The finger slowly breaches him and he reflexively clamps up against the intrusion but the finger doesn't relent and pushes in harder.

'I love you, I love you', he hears Jon's comforting voice whisper into his skin. His hole unclenches a little and is immediately filled with the finger. It moves inside him in circles, first soft then harder, stretching him a little, then a little more and a second later he feels even more stretched with a second finger joins the first interloper. That small and shallow ingress into his body seems to have overtaken his entire being and his rim clamps around Jon's fingers and he crushes him hard in his arms. Jon pulls his fingers out of Sherlock and turns him around. Sherlock hears a few short wet sounds and realizes that Jon has spat onto his hand. Jon rubs his fingers together, spreading the saliva over them and again reaches into Sherlock's cleft, this time pushing both fingers all the way into his passage. Sherlock's body shakes with the burn and he bites his lip to keep from shouting in pain.

'Let me in, love. Let me in…', Jon cajoles. 'I must prepare you if I am to take you. Let me in, my love, my Sherlock…'

The saliva on his fingers has lubricated the movement but not sufficiently. Sherlock is tight and dry and Jon grunts in disappointment and pulls out. 'I don't think we can do this here, Sherlock. I will hurt you if we go any further. We'll have to wait till we are back in the city.'

'No!' Sherlock moans and turns around to kiss Jon. 'No, no, no! Don't stop, please. Come with me', he urges and practically runs out of the water towards their clothes.

Jon follows him and steps onto the wet grass. Sherlock picks up their clothes and walks to a dry patch of ground where he spreads their tunics as makeshift blankets. Thick blades of grass obscure them from prying eyes as Jon lays himself on his back, his arms crossed under his head as a pillow and watches Sherlock watching him. His face is set.

'I am not going to hurt you, Sherlock. I don't care how much we want it. There are other things we can do.'

The taller man folds his legs under him to sit on his heels and reaches out his hand to stroke Jon's bare chest, feeling his moist skin pebble with the stimulation. Jon's nipples harden to nubs when Sherlock's thumb slowly caresses them, one at a time and then Sherlock lowers his head to suck on them. Jon's gasp is louder than he intended. His arms fly out from under his head and he buries his fingers in Sherlock's hair, losing himself to the suction of Sherlock's lips. When Sherlock lifts his head, Jon is not happy but Sherlock's next words make him smile.

'Jon, Jawn…', he husks, presenting up a small vial and placing it on Jon's chest. 'Will this help?'

Jon's eyes widen and then he laughs. 'You ridiculous, beautiful man! When did you-?'

'I pocketed it from your bath chamber one day, when you weren't looking', Sherlock admits coyly. 'It's with me all the time. I like to plan for all eventualities.'

'_Our_ bath chamber, Sherlock', Jon gently corrects him. 'And you certainly planned for _this_ eventuality, my love', Jon grants him and takes the vial of whale oil.

Sherlock's fingers tenderly stroke Jon's skin, down his neck, over the swells and dips of his chest and stomach down to his navel where they circle the puckered hollow and dip inside, teasing, tantalizing.

'I want to take you, my love. I want to come inside you…'

'Jon, my Jon, I love you, I love you, I love you', he murmurs, his gray eyes mesmerizing Jon from under thick, wet lashes. 'You belong inside me. My body was made for you to possess. I want to hold on to the feeling of you buried deep in my heat and slowly filling me with your seed.'

Jon's heart melts while his cock stiffens. 'Sherlock…Gods! Let me take you in my arms. Lie with me, my love', he pleads and Sherlock drapes himself over Jon, his plush mouth falling over Jon's, trying to consume him in a demented act of possession, biting and licking and sucking on any wet flesh he can find. They lie in a tangle of naked limbs, still wet from the waterfall, moaning loudly and clashing lips and teeth in a violent surrender as a cool breeze rustles through the curtain of grass.

'Take me now…', Sherlock pants into Jon's mouth and lifts a leg to slide a thigh over Jon's hips.

Sherlock sees the moonlight glisten over Jon's body and grabs him to pull him into a manic embrace, Jon's soft cries tearing at his heart.

'Make love to me, Jon', he moans into hair like golden silk.

'Sherlock, Sherlock', Jon sighs against his lover's skin as his lips trace over every beautiful inch, his tongue coming out every once in a while to taste him. Jon's fingers and mouth pay homage to the stunning body that lies under him and he kisses down Sherlock's chest and nibbles and sucks on the soft skin of his underbelly, the vulnerable flesh trembling and twitching under his ministrations. When Sherlock groans, the rumble vibrates through Jon's lips and courses under his skin along the length of his body which shivers with the thrill of love.

Sherlock lies back and looks up at the night sky. He feels his legs being nudged apart and his knees pulled up over Jon's shoulders. He lies still, boneless, offering his body as a tool for Jon's pleasure. He feels Jon's face between his thighs, warm and comforting, Jon's tongue over his cock, guttural sounds of pleasure from Jon's throat sending shards of ecstasy pulsating through his skin, Jon's hand separating his arse cheeks, the oil-slicked pads of his calloused fingers languidly circling and pressing into his slippery hole, the length of his digits pushing through his tight rim, one knuckle at a time, gently, so gently. He knows he is being celebrated.

Sherlock had never believed in _degrees_ of possession. When he first gave his body to Jon, he thought that was the ultimate surrender. Yet with every day he spends with Jon, he finds himself more owned by his Viking and more in love with him. He doubts there is a speck in his entire being that Jon hasn't already claimed. His body is but a vessel of skin and breath that houses his heart, his mind, his spirit until Jon calls for them. He is Jon's to own.

Jon's fingers are sliding smoothly inside him, within this most private part of his body, when Jon's body moves up over his own torso, his mouth is pried open and he is fucked above and below by tongue and fingers for a long time. He feels Jon's hips shift and when in one smooth move Jon's fingers are removed, he feels vacant between his legs for a fraction of a second until he is filled again by something longer and harder and hotter. And so much thicker. _Oh!_ This is a surfeit of sensation. His thighs fall open to accommodate Jon's undulating hips as he is claimed again and again. Jon's face is buried in his neck and nonsensical words of aching pleasure tumble from his lips and burn Sherlock's skin with their raw honesty.

Sherlock is overcome with a desperate need to see their bodies while in the throes of physical love, to see himself being filled by Jon. He thought that he had lost command of his astral self when he gave up his godhood for Jon and is surprised when his incorporeal form slowly rises out of his chest and hovers over their bodies, watching their writhing limbs lost in love, pressed so close together that each time Jon's body pulls away from his, it feels _wrong _until Jon pushes back in and his skin is once again flush with Sherlock's and they appear to be one body, one heart, one soul.

His astral self gently runs its fingers down the flexing muscles on Jon's back, coaxing his lover's psychic self out of its fleshy vessel. Soon a wispy golden form floats up from Jon's body and looks at his own blue spirit. He reaches out a gossamer hand to take Jon's golden fingers in his and they float into the sky, two dreamy apparitions languorously soaring into the ether while their earthly bodies lose themselves in their loving and heated coupling.

They rise above the dark skies of Asgard into the limitless cosmos, a magical black carpet strewn with jewels of starlight. Jon's ears fill with a low, primal hum and he instinctively recognises this one note as the root of everything, the elemental thread of sound that has pervaded and connected all matter, all existence since the birth of the universe. His ears pick up faraway chimes overlaying the hum, like the clinking of bells that are interspersed with the dull clatter of colliding galactic bodies; he knows that the most magnificent terrestrial experience will pale in comparison with this otherworldly spectacle of light and sound.

Sherlock leads Jon by his hand through the galaxy. They drift through diaphanous and luminous nebulae that cradle young stars and constellations like enormous spider webs of tiny incandescent bulbs.

A streaking beam of light catches Jon's attention and he is pulled by Sherlock into the tail of a passing comet. They spin through the freezing veil, leaving a trail like a double helix of blue twirled with gold and connected by strands of white ice – a melded cord of two spirits that playfully disrupts the smooth flow of frozen dust in a marvelous burst of sparkling white particulates. They share a silent laugh at their mischief and then Sherlock aims for Saturn, flying them through the beautiful planet's rings, sinuously dodging the thousands of little asteroids and rocks that form a stratified necklace of space debris around the barren behemoth.

The sun hangs in the distance like a glowing ball of orange, its smooth outline broken intermittently by angry red horsetails that shoot out from dark sunspots and then gently drop back to the surface, forming fiery arches of solar energy.

___'So much beauty is hidden from us'_, Jon marvels. He feels a gentle tug on his hand and turns to see Sherlock pointing to a green dot in the distance.

___'Nibiru'_, Sherlock tells him. '___What used to be my home.'_

Sherlock's voice is unexpectedly wistful and Jon pulls himself close and presses his aura to Sherlock's and down in Asgard, Jon's lips press against Sherlock's cheek in a tender kiss.

___'Your home is with me now, my love.'_  
  
Sherlock's auroral apparition takes on a slight pinkish tinge and pulls Jon into a vaporous embrace and they soar outside the bounds of the galaxy and hover in the nothingness, turning back to look at innumerable suns and stars and planets and nebulae coalescing into a two-tailed spiral of gleaming white on the black blanket of the universe.

_'That is our galaxy, the Milky Way'_, Sherlock's breathy ethereal voice carries to Jon.

The glow from their galaxy blots out surrounding heavenly bodies but when Jon raises his astral eyes, he is stunned to see the infinite dark canvas perforated by billions of twinkling stars, white and yellow and red and green, stars that might no longer be alive but whose light is only just reaching their eyes. Jon feels insignificant and yet he has never felt bigger. He grows intoxicated on the stupendous sight of innumerable gemstones of light and stardust shimmering over a lush unending sea of dark matter. Sherlock has taken him on a journey like no other, a voyage across the stars, and shown him indescribably wondrous aural and visual delights. Nothing will ever compare with this experience and no one will ever compare with Sherlock.

The hum of the universe pervades the quiet emptiness and Jon feels the vibrations of the cosmos saturate his body until all boundaries and gross divisions fall away. All traces of Jon's identity are stripped away – everything he has been taught and told about who he is and what he should be. "Jon the warrior" does not exist in that moment. Neither does "Jon the Asgardian". He knows he is forever changed. He has lost himself to the splendour of the universe. He has lost himself to Sherlock. All sensory recognition of phenomena falls away leaving behind just a noumenal awareness that Sherlock is the end of his search, the end of his story.

His wonder must be evident in his awestruck eyes because Jon feels a touch from the blue man-shaped wisp of light and presses into it, his golden essence mingling with Sherlock's indigo spirit until they cannot be told apart and are melded in a single cloud of blue tinged with gold, or perhaps gold tinged with blue. These distinctions no longer matter because they are together as they were meant to be. The flickering dance of their amorphous forms is mirrored on Nóregr by their physical bodies moving with, against and into each other in the light of the moon, the intensity of every touch magnified a thousand times by their astral connection a million miles above.

Sherlock feels a soft whiff of breath leave Jon's lips and brush against his ear and a thrill trickles along his ethereal spine down to his earthly form. Then Sherlock's spirit glows bright when he recognizes that it was more than just breath. He hears three words, so soft he may have imagined them. But then he hears them again, like an unspoken thought. When Jon speaks those three syllables a third time, this time against his lips, he is as certain of what he heard as he is of the feeling of Jon's body moving inside his, light years away in Asgard, and of Jon's spirit holding his hand as they roam the cosmos – three words that destroy and rebuild him every time he hears them.

Joy and gratitude overwhelm him and his blue form wraps its fingers around Jon's wrist as they are sucked back into their bodies. He feels he is plummeting to the ground and begins to shake with an inexplicable terror. He shakes and shakes. His body arches up to reach Jon's, still shaking. Jon understands and immediately snakes his arms under Sherlock's body and pulls him close, so close that their skin is fused from groin to shoulder. Long blue arms are locked around his neck and lissome legs are wrapped around his hips as his beautiful lover holds himself to Jon like he is his lifeline.

Jon drops soft kisses all over Sherlock's face, whispering, 'Sherlock...Sherlock…I'll hold you, love, and I'll never leave you…my love, my love, my heart…'

Sherlock opens his eyes and comes so intensely he is unable to tell if what he feels is pleasure or pain. All he knows is he _feels_, feels like he has never felt before. He _understands_, beyond the need for any intellectual articulation, that he is the nucleus of Jon's existence, of his happiness. It is humbling and, paradoxically, exalting. Above all, it is _frightening_. The weight of that responsibility would crush him were the converse not true. But it is. Jon is the nucleus of his existence. Jon is warm golden skin, soft golden hair, deep blue eyes, a steadfast heart and the most beautiful smile Sherlock has ever received. Jon loves him and he loves him back. He worships him back, his oblation offered in convulsions of hot fluid that flows in slick spurts between their bodies. He surrenders himself to the man who cares for him like no other, who loves him, who had died for him and all divisions between him and Jon die in that moment. They are one.

Sherlock feels their psychic connection fading as his ejaculate leaves him and stripes Jon's belly. He pulls his Viking into a hard embrace, desperate to hold on to him and their bond and when Jon stiffens above him, his hands reach down to grab his hips. Small tremors in Jon's arse cheeks rapidly intensify into hard and wanton convulsions of his hips; he begins to buck erratically over Sherlock, whose passage feels hot and stretched as Jon floods him with inexorable streams of come, branding him and owning him. Today Sherlock feels transformed. He knows he is forever changed. Today is the day he truly lost himself to Jon.

They lie empty and exhausted on their tunics in a hazy cocoon of blue as tendrils of Sherlock's indigo nimbus wrap around Jon who is limply draped over his chest, his hips stilled between his thighs. Sherlock's limbs and aura hold Jon close in the most visceral and honest confession he can make. Every gentle slide of those luminous fingers of misty light thrills Jon's skin where they touch him as the two lovers burn in the sweetest fire they have ever known.

A long time passes before Jon breaks the silence.

'That was simply incredible. _You_ are simply incredible, my love', he breathes into Sherlock's nipple.

'I love you, Jon', Sherlock says in a simple statement of truth.

Jon lifts his head to look into Sherlock's eyes. 'There can be no one for me but you. As long as I live, I am yours, Sherlock.'

'And I am yours, Jon', he whispers against his lover's lips. 'Now do you want to show me what you've been concealing in your trusty little waist-pouch since last week?'

'How do you know about that?' Jon pulls back with surprised smile.

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. 'Surely you realise there's nothing you do or think that is hidden from me. I know everything about you, Jon.'

'You can't know _everything_, Sherlock. You may deduce things based on what you see or hear but you can't know what I'm thinking.'

'Test me', Sherlock grins, releasing Jon to fold his arms under his head.

'Alright. Fine', Jon says. He licks his lower lip. 'I'm going to kiss your body and you're going to tell me what I'm thinking. If you get anything wrong, I'll flip you on your stomach and fuck you hard, right here. Again', he grins. 'If you get everything right, I'll show what I've been hiding from you. Sounds fair?'

'If I also get to fuck you from behind after.'

'Fine.'

'You're going to have bruised knees', Sherlock chuckles. 'And a very bruised arse.'

'Cocky bastard', Jon grumbles and Sherlock throws him a lopsided grin. Jon's heart stumbles.

'Shall we begin?' Sherlock asks impatiently.

Jon leans over Sherlock and presses his lips to his forehead and temples. Three very soft kisses.

'Caring. You care for me', Sherlock smiles.

'Lucky guess', Jon murmurs and drags his lips to Sherlock's cheekbones to gently trace their angularity, involuntarily letting out a heated breath against Sherlock's skin.

'You want me', Sherlock sounds smug.

'Fuck you.'

'Me first. You want me.'

'I want you. Now shut up.'

'Fine.'

Jon's lips press into Sherlock's hollow cheeks.

'You are fond of me.'

'Inordinately', Jon qualifies but his lips on Sherlock's jawline betray desperation.

'You need me.'

'I need you', Jon admits and presses his lips into the soft skin behind Sherlock's ear. His tongue comes out slowly to lick a wet stripe on the sensitive skin.

'Seduction…', Sherlock's breath hitches. 'You are trying to seduce me…'

'I _am_ seducing you', Jon grins against his skin and draws his lips down Sherlock's long neck, sucking on his taut tendons in a drinking motion.

'You thirst for me.'

'I am parched and only you can quench my thirst, Sherlock', Jon confesses. He licks and laps his tongue along the length of Sherlock's collarbone from the hollow at the base of his neck to his shoulder.

'Desperation…', Sherlock husks, sounding rather desperate himself.

'Desperation', Jon hums as he moves down to Sherlock's chest and licks his nipple.

'You desire me…'

'I desire you…', Jon agrees, dropping a soft trail of kisses down Sherlock's abdomen to pause over his navel. His lips press into that small hollow and hold there.

'You adore me…'

'So much, Sherlock, so much…' Jon cries out into Sherlock's skin, relinquishing the contest right there.

He runs his lips over Sherlock's flaccid length and moaning when he feels his cock thicken again. His tongue licks over the glistening tip, tasting the drying come.

'Jon!' Sherlock cries out. 'Sex…sex…you want to have sex with me… Ah!' he exhales when Jon sucks on his bulb.

Then his thighs are pushed apart and he feels the rough fabric of the tunic that lies below his hips being rubbed between his cheeks, quickly wiping him clean of whale oil and Jon's come to the extent possible and then Jon's tongue is pushing into his loose hole in a flagrant act of ownership.

'Lust…Gods, you lust for me!'

Jon can only manage an animalistic growl of agreement before he draws his lips down the length of Sherlock's leg and stops at his ankle, pressing his lips reverently to Sherlock's skin to kiss along his foot, his heel, his instep up to his toes. Jon takes Sherlock's big toe into his mouth and sucks, looking into his lover's eyes, his own irises darkened with love and lust and more love. Lowering Sherlock's foot, he leans over him to take both his hands in his and holds them to his lips. He just holds them there for a long minute.

'Gods, Jon!' Sherlock whispers. 'You are devoted to me.'

'I am your devotee, my love', Jon murmurs against his fingers and then drops his head to kiss Sherlock over his heart.

Sherlock's chest heaves in a shallow sob. 'Worship…you worship me.'

'I worship you', Jon acknowledges and pushes up until his face is over Sherlock's and they are lost in each other's eyes. He dips his head and places his trembling lips on Sherlock's.

'Des- destroyed', Sherlock stutters. 'I have destroyed you.'

Jon presses against Sherlock's lips, harder this time but he conveys submission rather than conquest.

'You surrender to me', Sherlock tells him.

Jon parts his lips and licks against the seam of Sherlock's plush, burning lips. He pushes his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, so familiar and welcoming and safe that it feels like _home_. They kiss for a long time, their yielding sighs drowned by the sounds of the water gushing by. When Jon finally lifts his head, Sherlock's eyes are still closed. He won't look at Jon. He cannot. His heart is full and his voice chokes in his throat.

It is a while before he manages to speak and his words are pained. He is wrecked.

'You love me.'

'I love you. Sherlock…my dearest, my love, my heart. You are the end of me.'

Sherlock's eyes open and he is immediately enveloped in the warmth of love that flows from Jon's eyes.

'All of that, Jon', the raw truth in his ragged voice tears at Jon's heart. '_All of it_, that is how I feel for you. You must know that, you _must_!'

'I know, my love, my love. I know. I love you, I love you.'

Jon lowers head to Sherlock's chest, listening to the hypnotic beat of his heart. Sherlock's arms are wrapped around him and his fingers lovingly run through his golden hair and they lie in silence. Sherlock looks up at the stellar universe laid out above him but knows that he holds in his arms the only universe that matters to him in the being of Jon Wöttson.

But he is still Sherlock and he has to know.

'Jon…', he calls softly.

'Yes, love?' his Viking sounds satiated.

'I won.'

'Bastard. Competitive to the end.'

'I won, Jon.'

'You won.'

'So, what have you been hiding in your pouch?'

Jon pulls out of Sherlock's embrace. 'Let's go inside, then', he murmurs against his lips, 'and I'll show you.'

Reluctantly, they rise to their feet and walk back to the cabin. Jon pulls open the drawstrings of the pouch and holds the contents out in his hand. Sherlock sees two golden chains in Jon's palm, each with a small marble pendant, one blue and white and the other green.

'Nóregr and Nibiru?' he asks.

'Nóregr and Nibiru. You really do know everything, don't you?' Jon asks fondly.

'_Almost_ everything. It's obvious what they are but I don't know what they signify.'

'These', he runs his fingers over the chains, 'are made from the single link of Hephaestus' chains. That final day in Sparta, Ares gave me the link and said that he hoped I only needed it to bind my foolish, mistrusting companion to me for all eternity.'

He pauses and looks up. His eyes nervously flit across Sherlock's attentive eyes and his throat runs dry.

'I _want_ us to be bound together for all eternity, Sherlock. If you were a woman, I would give you a ring and ask you to marry me. You're not a woman, so I cannot marry you in conformance with societal conventions. But Sherlock… if marriage is giving yourself to that one person for whom you would forsake all others, I _want_ to marry _you_! I want you to bear some physical symbol of your joining with me and I want an identical symbol. So these chains…Nóregr around your neck, Nibiru around mine…because- because we belong to each other…', he trails off and looks away.

'It's a silly thought…I'm being silly. Forget I said anything', he mutters dismissively and closes his fist around the chains. He is about to turn away when Sherlock pulls him into his arms.

'I cannot believe that you have ever cared for what society stipulates that one can or cannot do, Jon. So go on, ask me to marry you.'

'Sherlock…'

'Ask me, Jon!' he urges.

'Will- will you marry me, Sherlock Hölmesson?'

'Yes, Jon Wöttson, I will marry you.'

'Gods, Sherlock!' Jon gasps and pulls his lover's head down for a desperate kiss.

'Jon! Please!' Sherlock pushes him away with a mischievous grin. 'I have my chastity to think about!'

'Chastity?' Jon's voice is tremulous with joy. 'We put paid to any vestigial chastity with what we just did, love. That was as dissolute as two men can get.'

'Perhaps, but I refuse to kiss a strange man' Sherlock primly pushes his lower lip out. 'I will _only_ kiss the man to whom I am properly married.'

'Come here, you prude. Let me marry you _properly_', Jon huffs and holds the chain with the pendant of Nóregr around Sherlock's neck. He presses his lips to Sherlock's and fastens the clasp at his nape.

'There, you're married to me now', he smiles and opens his hand.

Sherlock takes the other chain and fastens it around Jon's neck. 'And you are married to me. You may kiss me now, Jon', he laughs softly.

'I love you, Sherlock.'

'I love you, Jon.'

They lie on the bed in silence for a long time, listening to each other breathe, losing themselves in the rise and fall of their chests and the soft movement of lips on lips. Then Jon pulls away and rests his head on Sherlock's chest.

'I won, Jon.'

'Yes, you did, love, and I showed you what I was hiding in my pouch.'

'That was not the entire agreement.'

'I see…'

'We are married.'

'Yes, we are.'

'I wish to exercise my spousal privileges now.'

Jon smiles and lifts his head to rest his chin on his hand which caresses Sherlock's chest. 'Peremptory idiot. What exactly do those privileges entail?' he asks, his eyes glittering with love.

'I am entitled to take you now, if that wouldn't be terribly inconvenient.'

'Glib fucker', Jon murmurs, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's chest.

'No to the first, yes to the second.'

'Shut up.'

'Why?'

'So that it is convenient for you to kiss me.'

'Sensible Jon…Unhhh'

'Much as I enjoy kissing you like this, Jon, I enjoy kissing you while I'm fucking you even more.'

'Impatient bastard.'

'Yes to the first, no to the second...Unhhh...Jon, Jon...'

'Jon! If you touch me there, I won't be able to hold back anymore!'

'Then don't! Gods, love...take me, own me, fuck me...'

'Finally...'

Jon can almost _hear_ Sherlock's eyes roll. 'Your sex talk leaves a lot to be desir- Aahhh!'

'Uh- uh- Jon...Jon...Unnhhh!'

'Gods, love, you feel so good inside me! Don't hold back. Sherl- Oh! Love!'

'Jaawwnnn!'

...  
'I love you, Sherlock.'

'I know.'

'And?'

'I love you, Jon.'

'Much better but we still need to work on your sex talk. Good night, my dearest.'

'Good night, Jon.'

* * *

**Notes:**

The chapter title is from the song 'Celestial Terrestrial Commuters' by Mahavishnu Orchestra - an incredible group of virtuosos and highly recommended for any lovers of Indian-fusion jazz.

My description of S & J's astral jaunt drew visual inspiration from the series 'Cosmos' and aural inspiration from the song 'Aquarius' by Anugama which, I imagine, is how the universe would sound.

And I couldn't write a story in which they don't get married! :) Who cares if it's the most implausible thing ever?


	15. Who am I?

**Who am I?**

* * *

**Summary**: The Ninth Realm...

**Notes:** Not beta'd so let me know if there are any errors and I'll fix them.

* * *

Sherlock retreats to the cabin to work on his designs for Valhalla and curtly indicates that he is not to be disturbed until he emerges from his study. He seems to have slipped into a comfortable routine of weekend work sessions at the cabin, leaving Jon to make sure that they are fed and clothed. He cares little for food and is quite happy to wander about the cabin completely naked. Jon is, essentially, relegated to the role of housekeeper every weekend.

Grumbling about his tetchy and unhelpful lover, Jon walks through the forest, carrying with him food, clean clothes and other miscellaneous articles of everyday use. He also carries a small keg of mead, his reward to himself for his efforts. If Sherlock decides he is going to work through the night, Jon will need something other than sex to give him pleasure, hence the mead.

'Cantankerous bastard', he silently grouses about Sherlock. 'Thinks everyday tasks are beneath him. I'm not his servant, I'm his fucking husband! Maybe I should withhold sex for a week. That'll show him', Jon chuckles. Fifty yards later, he shakes his head. 'The gorgeous prick will strip, run his hand through his hair and narrow his smoky eyes at me and a second later, my dignity will be lying discarded on the floor while I thrust against his leg like a dog in heat. Sometimes it appears I think with my cock. Beautiful blue bastard. Fuck, I love him.'

His head jerks up when he hears a crackling sound from the direction of the cabin and he is horrified to see the entire structure enveloped in flaming tongues of mystic blue, not yellow. With a petrified cry, he drops his supplies and rushes to the cabin. Nearing the door, he doesn't feel heat. This is a cold fire. Bodies of what were once fierce demons lie strewn around the house, burned to black crisps. His heart in his mouth, Jon throws the door open and sees Sherlock lying lifeless and crumpled on the floor. The charred remains of another large demon lie on the floor a few feet away. He is clearly the leader of the demons. His heart hammers in his chest as his eyes slowly move to the only other animate being in the room.

A very tall ascetic with light emerald-green skin levitates in the middle of the room; his back is perfectly straight and his legs are crossed in the lotus pose, feet resting on the opposite upper thighs and pressing into his hip bones. His torso and feet are bare and he wears a large piece of tiger skin around his waist. Long black hair streams down his shoulders in matted locks. A long string of brown beads hangs around his neck and a silver amulet is tied around one bicep. Both his eyes are closed but a half-closed third eye in the middle of his forehead watches Jon. He looks serene and meditative but Jon is wary, convinced that he has attacked and overcome Sherlock and the demons. He can see Sherlock's chest rise and fall – he is alive but unconscious. Jon draws his sword. The ascetic opens his eyes. They are pale gray.

'Who are you?' Jon demands of the stranger. He looks like Sherlock but, Jon estimates, is at least a head taller.

'Jon Wöttson', the ascetic speaks in a finessed baritone. He sounds like Sherlock.

'That is who I am. Who the fuck are you and what have you done to Sherlock?'

'Sherlock? Hmm….'

'Answer my question.'

'Anything I do to Sherlock I do to myself. He will come to no harm, I assure you.'

'I won't ask again. Who are you?'

'I am Anu.'

Jon is silent for a long moment.

'Anu? Really?' he cocks an unimpressed eyebrow.

'Yes, I am the one they call Anu, the Creator. All life comes from me. Time, itself, was born in me.'

'If you're really Anu, you may be the creator of all life but you're a terrible parent. Your sons don't play nice and try to blow each other up and take the cosmos with them.'

'Enlil is the more stable of my sons. Enki was always unpredictable.'

'Enki is dead', Jon says tonelessly.

'Yes, Enlil made sure of that.'

'He wouldn't have succeeded without Sherlock's help.'

'Shara's help and yours, Jon Wöttson. Shara would not have succeeded were it not for you.'

Jon shrugs indifferently. 'So what did you mean by "anything I do to Sherlock I do to myself."?'

'I am in Shara and he is in me.'

'Because you're the creator of all life?'

'No, Shara is different. Shara is me.'

'I admit there is a resemblance but I should warn you I've had my fill of riddles for a lifetime. You'll have to be clearer than that.'

'Ah, yes', Anu smiles. 'I recall your encounter with the Sphinx.'

'You recall-? How could you? You weren't there.'

'Wasn't I, if Shara and I are one?' Anu looks amused.

'Fuck this and get to the point.'

'You are so impatient, Jon Wöttson.'

'And you are as annoying as the Sphinx.'

'Well, I did create the Sphinx too, so that is to be expected, I suppose', Anu allows.

Jon pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales heavily. 'Anu, you'd best start talking. I am not a patient man and I can wield a sword better than most men. All I care about is Sherlock and I suspect he will not awaken until you leave.'

'Oh alright! I was murdered by Enki.'

Jon is aghast. 'Patricide? What kind of family are you running here?'

'In the beginning I created a single realm, Nibiru, where I ruled with my wife, Ki. Our children and their descendants formed the pantheon of gods, the Annunaki. Enki was mad for power, absolute power but he could never have that as long as I lived. So he killed me in my sleep. Even that is nigh impossible because my third eye is always watchful. He must have administered a very potent soporific because the night of my murder my third eye, which represents my mind and the seat of my consciousness, closed for the first time and my defences were weakened. I was beheaded and my body cut into seven pieces. My head was tossed into the forest of Mashu and the seven pieces of my body were strewn across the cosmos.'

'Seven pieces. Seven new realms…'

'Exactly! The creative force flowed so strongly through me that seven entire worlds were born from each piece of my body and instantaneously populated with life. The Annunaki formed local pantheons of gods by projecting their astral selves to each planet.'

'Is that why every pantheon has an equivalent deity for each Annunaki but not for you?'

'I can see why Shara finds you a worthy companion, Jon Wöttson. At that point I, as Anu, did not exist.'

Jon listens, rapt with attention. 'So how come Enlil was appointed ruler of the heavens and Enki relegated to the netherworld?'

'Enlil, as older brother, assumed control of all Annunaki and the other worlds. When he discovered what Enki had done, he immediately consigned him to the Underworld. Enki still possessed his godhood but did not hold dominion over other gods. That authority was wrested by Enlil. Of course, Enki would never be satisfied and discovered a way to destroy the other Annunaki and you know exactly how that turned out.'

'Indeed I do. However, it still doesn't answer my original question. What did you mean when you said you are in Shara and he is in you? How can Shara be you?'

'You are forgetting my severed head that was tossed into the forest of Mashu', Anu leads Jon to make his own deduction.

Jon, however, is not the most patient man. 'What of your head?'

'My mind is the seat of my consciousness; it is where my creative energy is strongest. Ki wandered the forest in search of my head and when she came upon it, washed up on the banks of a river, she bled her life force out and, unbeknownst to everyone else, joined our energies to create Shara.'

'By that reckoning…if each realm was formed directly from your life force, that would make Sherlock the Ninth- '

'The Ninth Realm, yes! You are very bright, Jon Wöttson. Shara is, indeed, the Ninth Realm! As long as the nine realms exist, I exist.'

'Does he know that?'

'He will, when he rouses.'

'So…he is formed from the combined energies of you and your wife.'

'Yes.'

'Is that why he looks so…distinctive?'

'Hmm…I see…You are correct in assuming that that is the reason for the inexplicable elegance in his features. Quite unexpected in a warrior god, is it not?'

'It is.'

'Does that disappoint you?'

'Gods, no! Not at all! It just explains why he is unlike any other man I have met and why I am unable to tear my eyes from him', Jon's voice drops and he walks over to where Sherlock lies still on the ground. He sits down beside him and places his hand over Sherlock's chest, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his body. 'He has mesmerised me.'

'As you have mesmerised him.'

'I don't think so', Jon laughs self-effacingly. 'I'm just an ordinary Asgardian but he…he's extraordinary. He's astonishingly perfect.' He gently strokes his lover's hair.

'He must think you are all of those things and more because he made a great sacrifice to bring you back to life.'

'What sacrifice?'

'You died in Roma. You were revived by Enlil because Shara surrendered his immortality and his godhood in exchange for your life.'

'What? Why- why would he do that?!'

'He couldn't let you die.'

Jon glares at the immobile Sherlock in exasperation. 'The idiot values his life so little! Just gives up his immortality! I'll have words with him when he wakes up. If he weren't everything I could ever want in a companion, I would kill him!'

'Apparently, you are everything he could ever want in a companion. And your accusation is a bit unfair, isn't it?' Anu asks with an amused smile.

'How so?' Jon is riled up.

'You valued your life little enough to throw yourself in the path of Enki's fatal bolt of lightning to save Shara. I'm sensing a bit of a pot and kettle situation here', Anu smiles.

Jon shrugs sheepishly. 'Well, of course I couldn't let him die.'

'He couldn't let you die either. He is inanely devoted to you. This pleases me, Jon Wöttson. Although Ki will never be returned to me, I have found love again through Shara.'

Jon looks over Sherlock, wanting nothing more than to crush the gorgeous, blue fool in his arms and never let him go. But he cannot because Anu is still in the room and Sherlock is still unconscious.

'I am feeling generous and shall grant you both a boon as you have saved me and my realms. Forced eternal life can be a punishment but you shall both have the ability to choose the time of your passing into the after-life. You are, in a sense, immortal. Neither of you need outlive the other unless you so choose. And Shara shall also have his godhood again.'

'I- I am not sure what to say.'

'You know what to say to Shara, won't you?'

'Of course.'

'Then you know what to say to me.'

Jon nods and gently pushes a dark lock off Sherlock's forehead. Then he looks at Anu.

'What will you do now?'

'I shall return to Nibiru and take my place as head of the Eight Realms. You already sit at the head of the Ninth Realm', he says with a smile. 'I might also seek another consort although, unlike Shara, I will choose a woman', he laughs. 'Farewell, Jon Wöttson', his words echo from his fading form.

The room turns bright again. The body of the demon disappears and Sherlock slowly regains consciousness. His eyes flutter open and he blinks rapidly, groaning when Jon pulls him into his arms and rocks their bodies back and forth.

'You fool', Jon cries, dropping kisses on his lover's face. 'You utter idiot, you fool. I love you. I love you. I love you.'

' n… n…', Sherlock groans. 'Jon, the room is spinning.'

'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I'm shaking you. I'm an idiot. No, you're an idiot. We're both idiots.'

'I don't…contest that for a moment, Jon', Sherlock rasps, 'but would you care to explain your accusation?'

'You gave up your immortality and your godhood to save my life. Even when you thought I had lain with Apollo and abandoned you. What is wrong with you?'

'I love you. Is that wrong?'

'No, no, of course not!' Jon growls. 'I'll kill you if you stop loving me.'

'It's a good thing I'm immortal', Sherlock deadpans. 'And you, Jon, you gave your life for me even though you thought I despised you at the time.'

'Yes, your progenitor, the great Anu', Jon sneers, 'has also perspicaciously discerned that I am madly in love with you.' Jon snorts and tightens his arms around Sherlock.

'Are you trying to crush me into you?'

'Yes, that is exactly what I am trying. You're so- Sherlock, Sherlock, I love you. I love you. Gods, I love you!'

'I love you, Jon, and I never want to be parted from you.'

'I'll kill you if you leave me.'

'You'll kill me if I stop loving you, you'll kill me if I leave you. You're crushing me hard enough to kill me. You're in a bit of a murderous mood today, Jon. What happened to the calm commander of Thor Odinson's army?'

'He died in Roma. You brought a monster back to life.'

'I suppose I am doomed to loving and living with this monster for the rest of my days.'

'That is correct', Jon murmurs against Sherlock's lips. 'You married him. You're mine. You are Jon's Sherlock.'

'And you are mine. You are Sherlock's Jon.'

They kiss softly for a long time, not wanting this perfect moment to ever end.

'Were you aware of my exchange with Anu?'

'I was. Everything is clear now. I understand why I was able to hear the cries of the dying gods, why a third eye appeared on my forehead at those times, why my origins were unknown and why even in my earliest memories, I was an adult.'

'Your behaviour is not always that of an adult', Jon teases fondly.

'Not in life and relationships, I agree. But in the bedchamber?' Sherlock asks, innocently pushing out his lower lip in a sweet pout, knowing full well that Jon was satiated beyond measure by his sexual aptitude.

'Oh, your behaviour there is as adult as one can get and I am not complaining', Jon breathes and pulls Sherlock's lower lip into shallow suck. 'You must be tired. Do you want to rest?'

'I'll be fine if you just hold me like this for a while.'

'I'll hold you, love…Tell me what happened here and who these demons were?'

'That was Rabisu lying on the floor. He was Enki's son and Asag's brother. He escaped Enlil's prison on Nibiru and came here to kill us and avenge the deaths of his father and brother. I'm not exactly sure what happened but when Rabisu attacked me with Enki's spear, I was hit in the middle of my chest. I went catatonic and a circle of blue fire shot out of me, all around and leveled Rabisu and his demons standing guard outside. I fell to the floor, paralyzed, and watched Anu emerge from me, from my body and my consciousness. That's when you returned.'

'You know, every day with you brings another surprise. I love you, Sherlock. You…you are my miracle.'

'I love you, Jon. I live for you and the day we are parted is the day my heart stills.'

* * *

'Sherlock!' Jon calls out to his husband. He sounds irate.

'What is it, Jon?' Sherlock asks, stepping out of the bath chamber, toweling his hair. Jon holds his journal in his hand and frowns at it.

'What exactly is this?' he demands, shaking the book at Sherlock. It is a month since the incident with Anu and he has changed its title to 'The Ninth Realm' in honour of its hero.

Sherlock mentally rolls his eyes. Marriage to Jon, he has learned, sometimes entails stating the obvious. He resolves to be patient. 'It is your book, Jon.'

**The Ninth Realm**

**The chronicles of Jon Wöttson**

**_Edited for scientific accuracy by Sherlock Hölmesson _**

'Don't be facetious. Why are you editing my book? You have inserted comments and- and corrections all over and indicated that about a third of every page should be struck through! And what exactly is "scientific accuracy"?!'

'Jon, I accept that you have a tendency to romanticize everything', he says tolerantly. 'But this book is, to put it mildly, a little extreme. There are dozens of paragraphs describing my body in rather graphic detail – my lean and corded muscularity, the swell of my buttocks, my eyes of silver ice, my plush bow-shaped lips, my dark, cascading hair, my dusky nipples. The list goes on. Gods, Jon!' his tone is flustered and his cheeks colour. 'This is not an adventure story. It is erotica! You've dedicated half a page to describe my cock and my arse! There is a limit to literary license.'

'This is not erotica', Jon's mumbled dissent sounds wounded. He looks at the book wistfully, pursing his lips.

Sherlock immediately regrets his critique. 'It isn't?' he asks softly, hooking a finger under Jon's chin to tilt his face up.

'No…it's my love letter to you.'

Sherlock crumbles.

'Oh, Jon', he gathers his lover in his arms, 'forgive me. I was overwhelmed by your praise. I fear you see me as something I am not. You constantly refer to me as exquisite and beautiful!'

'What of it?' Jon grouses.

Sherlock draws himself to his full height and his posture reflects the affected gravitas of his next pronouncement. 'I am a man', he pauses for dramatic effect, 'not a flower.'

Jon laughs in spite of himself and Sherlock knows he has mollified his husband.

'No, Sherlock', Jon sounds fond. 'You are a flower, my beloved. You are my flower. You are a god, an exquisite and beautiful god. Your body, your mind and your soul are exquisite and beautiful. This is what I want to say to you every day.'

Sherlock huffs happily under his husband's adoring gaze. 'Really, Jon, I sometimes think love and marriage have softened your brain. You get more sentimental every day. You probably don't realise you're less warrior and more love poet. And stop looking at me like that.'

'Like what?' Jon asks, running his tongue along his lower lip in a blatantly salacious gesture.

'Like you've been starving for a month and I am your favourite dessert. Don't-' he warns but his words are lost in Jon's mouth. He stops speaking so that he can put his own mouth to better use.

* * *

An hour later, they lie facing each other in their bed, stroking their faces and bodies. Jon has wiped Sherlock's come from between his arse cheeks and his ejaculate from Sherlock's chest and belly. He sighs, glutted with pleasure and looks into the calm, pale eyes of his lover.

'Next time, we should do it before you bathe', he laughs.

Sherlock just looks at him intently. 'How is it strangers are able to see things we don't?'

Jon cocks his head in a question.

'The Sphinx saw that we had chosen each other. Imhotep said we would find our way to each other.'

'Aphrodite said that I would save you and you would save me. That we were meant for each other. She saw us as two halves of a whole, destined to meet across the universe. At the time, I didn't believe her at all because you'd gone storming off to Roma and left me behind', Jon complains.

Sherlock leans in and buries his face into Jon's neck. He breathes in the scent of his husband and presses a soft kiss to his skin. 'You should know better than to doubt the Goddess of Love, Jon', he purrs contentedly, enjoying the light scraping of Jon's fingers on his scalp.

'Incidentally', he mumbles, 'Imhotep did say we were welcome to return to Giza. There are certain local practices with which I wish to familiarize myself. I also wanted to bring back samples of their essential oils.'

'I'm sure you do, Sherlock. I assume all of this stems from scientific interest.'

'Purely scientific interest. However, if I were to put my newfound knowledge to good use in daily life, I don't think you'd mind.'

'Not at all. I'm very accommodating of all your idiosyncrasies, aren't I?'

Sherlock pulls Jon's face down to his for a loving kiss.

'Do you think, after Giza, we might stop over in Sparta as well?' Jon asks.

'Sparta? What for?'

'I'd like to meet Circe and personally thank her for almost destroying our lives', Jon snarls.

'She was just a fool, Jon.'

'She was vindictive and scheming and I want her to know that we know what she did but that's not all – I also want to make love to you while she watches and stews in her own jealousy.'

'I didn't realise you were an exhibitionist, Jon', Sherlock's eyes gleam appreciatively. 'In that case, I fully agree that we must pay Circe a visit. Perhaps', he adds thoughtfully, 'the Sphinx is also deserving of the same kind of demonstration?'

'You're brilliant, love! Although, it might have the opposite effect there because I think that oversexed lion would enjoy that', Jon laughs.

'And might even offer to join us in the act! He was rather taken with us both' Sherlock murmurs playfully against Jon's lips.

'Well, we can't all three…you know…dance. There are limits!' Jon pretends to be mortified.

'Limits be damned. I'll kill anyone who dares to touch you', Sherlock informs him calmly.

'Likewise, love', Jon assures him, his voice equally level.

'Mmmm…huuhh', Sherlock's hum trails off into a yawn. 'You've sapped all my energy', he complains.

'I'm a warrior who can suck a god dry!' Jon giggles. 'Who knew?'

'The god will return the favour tomorrow. Save your strength. We have a long way to go. Giza, then Sparta.'

'I'd like to visit Nibiru, too.'

'You would?' Sherlock lifts his head.

'Of course I would. I want to know everything about you. Show me your cabin there, take me around your forest, tell me about your life as Demigod of Thunder and War', Jon's eyes glisten with love.

'I love you', Sherlock whispers against Jon's lips. 'I'll take you to Nibiru and then wherever you want to go. The cosmos is our playground. Good night, Jon.'

'Good night, love.'

**FIN**


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